


Port in the Storm

by kvella



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cullen and Josie are constantly irritated at each other, Drunken Almost Hook Up, Eventual Smut, F/M, Getting Together, Halamshiral (Dragon Age), Haven (Dragon Age), Hawke at Skyhold, Jealousy, Mutual Pining, Opposites Attract, The Winter Palace (Dragon Age), Unresolved Sexual Tension, insert your own Inquisitor, rarepair hell, working together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:41:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 39,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25536004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kvella/pseuds/kvella
Summary: A mead fueled tryst brings the Inquisition’s Ambassador and Commander together one night, but responsibility and miscommunication keeps them apart. When they’re assigned to build a memorial for Haven, will they find their way through the chaos or say turn away from each other forever?
Relationships: Dorian Pavus & Cullen Rutherford, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Josephine Montilyet & Varric Tethras, Josephine Montilyet/Cullen Rutherford, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 51
Kudos: 22





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Josephine and Cullen call a stalemate and have a mead-fueled encounter.

To find the Ambassador and the Commander at the Haven tavern was unusual, if not unheard of. 

On this particular evening, the advisors had an unexpectedly light workload on their hands, the Herald being off in the Hinterlands to track down a potential Warden ally. Setting aside that they were what Josephine graciously liked to call “very different people” on a good day, she and Cullen had spent the better part of the afternoon bickering over the weathered maps of the war table. As the first dinner bell rang, Leliana excused herself, tired of the stubbornness and sniping and impatient to return to her work. 

Embracing the rare opportunity for a free night, they declared a stalemate on the appropriate way to acquire resources - _“just for the evening,”_ she jested - and found themselves taking in the ambiance of the local pub. It must have been something about the candle light or the dulcet melody of the flute, but as the sky fell dark, their words grew unmistakably _flirtatious_. One glass led to another, led to one glass of sweet honeyed mead too many and a surprisingly handsy, stumbling stroll back to the Chantry.

It’s hard to say who initiated, who pulled whom behind the Chargers’ tent but suddenly they were intertwined with arms around necks and hips, mouths dancing across each other’s cheeks and lips and chins. They parted, chuckling at the absurdity of the moment and the warmth of the mead bright and high in their cheeks and the crisp, snowy air nipping at their skin. 

Pulling open the heavy Chantry door, Cullen grabbed Josephine’s hand boldly, but the gentleness with which he whispered “Is this okay?” melted her heart. Breathlessly, she whispered “yes” and he led her down the hall, a half-step ahead of her. Both were exhilarated by the openness with which they cavorted, regardless of the scarcity of people around at this time of night. They practically scampered down the hall to the bedroom in the far back, a strange youthful giddiness between them, so unlike either’s usual demeanor. 

Cullen went first, opening the door to the room and heading inside. As she stepped in, Josephine caught a glance of Vivienne’s narrowed eye down the hall, felt the distinctive sense of judgement dripping from her eyes, high, mighty, and filing this sight away for her personal chess game. Deciding to ignore the opinions of others for once in her life, she raised her chin defiantly and followed him inside. No one else was around the Chantry at the late hour, and their good spirits and libidinous energy bounced off the stone walls. 

She scanned the sparse room quickly, though she knew they were alone. To the left, Cassandra’s bed lay untouched. The Seeker had been away for weeks. A rather large tome sat on the table next to a candle that was burnt so low it may never light again. In the back, Josephine’s lived-in bed - made, but not fussily so, not when there are so many more important things to do than have a crisply folded sheet. Her lute sat dusty near her nightstand, an admittedly frivolous item to bring to a war, despite best intentions of putting her past as a bard towards morale and raised spirits. And on the right, Cullen’s bed, a Templar bed if she’d ever seen one. Regulation corners and all. 

Cullen pulled her to him by the waist, kissed her hard, seemed to find a renewed sense of purpose in the privacy of their room. The fur of his mantle tickled against her neck. “Do you know,” he asked between fervent kisses, “I have thought about this every day since you moved into this room?”

A good, pious Chantry boy thinking about kissing her with all the passion of a sinner under this holy roof, every damn day. The thought made her knees weak. She moaned lightly against his lips. Filled with confidence, she walked him back against his bed, toppling him down atop the tautly pulled linens. 

Desire rested deep in her belly, a sensation she hadn’t entertained for anyone in years. He fiddled with the satin buttons at her throat, jangling her heavy necklace back and forth against her collarbones. She leaned back, trying to give him space to work, fingers making waves through his carefully combed hair. Satisfied with the amount of flesh he’d exposed, he rose to her neck - the feeling of his smooth lips and stubble brushing against her throat was divine and she closed her eyes to savor it. Quickly, a brief flash in the theater of her mind: _Vivienne and her haughty sideways glance. The Herald and Cassandra recruiting forces off in the Hinterlands. The bright emerald gashes tearing apart the sky._

A pang of panic struck her heart. Lifting her bejeweled hands to gently cup his face, she kissed him deeply, slowly. His stubble was rough against the pads of her fingers. She wanted to go further, wanted to be closer and closer, truly couldn’t believe she was about to say this until she felt the unfortunate words tumble out of her mouth like marbles.

“We should stop.”

He ceased instantly, removed his hands from her as if commanded by the Maker himself. “Okay.” His amber eyes were smoky, lips swollen and pink and thoroughly kissed. He was so beautiful that, for a brief moment, she reconsidered. "Why?" He asked, regaining composure.

She crawled off of him, settled on her knees at the foot of his bed. A cloud of disappointment floating around her hung head. He propped himself up on his elbows, catching his breath, and let his head roll back in thought, probably some frustration. She couldn’t fault him for that - her body ached for him, but her mind knew how these things tend to go. The mead was in her cheeks, hot and hazy, and his hands had mussed soft wisps of hair around her face, a golden halo illuminated by the fire.

Softly, carefully, she said, “It is not that I do not want this. In fact, I have thought of it...quite often. But…” She paused, dropped her voice to a whisper as if she was not certain that what she was about to say was a good choice. “I do not want just one night. And to become entangled right now with so much at stake...it is a fool’s errand, is it not?” 

He sat up, eyes shut tight and brow furrowed in deliberation. She tried not to look at him, hope churning in her gut that he’d quell her fears or try to convince her otherwise or at least tell her he felt the same. Instead he responded, “You are right.” 

It was quiet for a moment, only the crackling of the fire and the tension of disappointment to sooth them as they contemplated the many boundaries they had crossed together. Josephine felt a fire stirring in her veins. This man who rarely backs down, let alone _to her,_ had simply caved to her concern without a single protestation. 

She couldn’t help herself, and picked the fight anyway. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say? When do you ever agree with me?” It came out sharper than intended, but she didn’t try to soften it with more words.

Abruptly, Cullen stood, walked over to the small table near the fireplace. The sound of water pouring into glasses was nearly ear-splitting in the silence of their choice. “I don’t know how I am meant to share a bedroom with you when I know what you feel like against me, Josie,” he said remorsefully, offering her the glass. Eyes wide, she took it with bated breath. ”But I know that you’re right - were we to continue, I am certain I would have no choice but to _stay_ entangled.” 

He leaned back against the fireplace, _casually_ , and sipped the water. She stared at him, a mad kind of anticipation in her eyes. The words hit her ears, white hot. They sounded to her like something of a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the prologue! Started off steamy, but we're just getting started. I've never written a scene like this, so I would very much appreciate your feedback!
> 
> This is my first multi-chapter fic and I've been hard at work on it for a while. I'm excited to share!
> 
> Thank you!


	2. Celebration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professionalism abounds, Josephine gains an admirer, and Haven celebrates a win.

A fortnight of frustrating, sleepless nights pass. By the time the sun rises over Haven, Cullen is more than ready to take it out on running his soldiers through their paces at the training grounds. There is a nagging, needling feeling coursing through his veins; it has been a challenging month since he stopped taking lyrium, Josephine notwithstanding. As he washes at a basin of icy water in the corner of the room he tries to dab it out with each swipe of the coarse cloth. Cassandra’s light snores contrast to the bustling noise of the Chantry waking up. It is known throughout the town - today is the day the Herald will attempt to close the Breach, and the Seeker will be at their side, leading the charge. She deserves the few extra moments of rest before the campaign. 

Wiping his hands on a small towel, he gazes wistfully at Josephine’s sleeping figure, cloaked by blue-grey shadows in the windowless room. She clutches a pillow tightly to her breast, fists clenched as though even in sleep she is unable to escape the constant stress and tension of her days. As he dresses, he thinks back to mere weeks ago and the disappointing stop and start they had. In spare moments his mind tends to wander back to the mead and the kisses and how she had called their dalliance “a fool’s errand.” But also that she had thought of this - often, too. The memory sinks in his stomach like a leaden cannonball in a turbulent sea. 

Their communication has been perfunctory since then, both trying to keep to themselves outside the War Room and avoid any awkwardness, discomfort, or worse - temptation. Evenings are the worst. Cullen finds himself stretching his work later and later into the nights - waiting until the women are asleep to return. Maybe it is because of this that Cassandra seems not to have noticed yet. At the very least, she has been kind enough to not let on if she does.

He runs some grease and a wooden comb through his hair, vanity be damned. Satisfied enough with his preparation for the day and desperate for a distraction, Cullen opens the heavy door quietly so as to not disturb his slumbering roommates and heads out, snatching an apple off a side table and nodding a polite hello at curmudgeonly Chancellor Roderick as he passes. The bureaucrat was certainly not his favorite, a sour man who had been nothing but trouble since the Breach erupted. His misguided vendetta against the Inquisitor had been a thorn in the side of all the advisors, constantly trying to appease him. 

The jaunt down to the lakeside training grounds takes him only a few minutes at his natural clip and the bracing chill of the snowy morning does exactly what he hoped it would. By the time he makes it to the spot he prefers to survey the troops from, he feels his spine straighten with an unexpected vim and vigor. 

A glorious two hours of uninterrupted training goes by, and Cullen _does._ As much as he knows the necessity of a good and considered plan, he dislikes the constant talks of strategy, of politics he can’t be bothered with and pretty words he can’t find. He is a man of action and the feeling of drilling in the dirt and snow with his people gives him a satisfaction that developing a plan simply cannot. The movement of sparring feels good in his bones and when a recruit hands him a canteen of spring water he accepts it gratefully and tells the troops to take a rest. He slugs down the entire canteen in three deep gulps, the cool liquid soothing his heated body. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a new addition to the Inquisition, the Warden recruited from off in the south Hinterlands, walking surely over to him. Cullen braces himself. Despite the hours of exercise and respite, he is still in no mood to be sociable with anyone. 

“Hello,” the man says, heavy black mustache moving up and down. “Commander Rutherford, right?” 

“Ah, yes. And you’re the Warden. Blackwall, if I’m not mistaken?” Cullen asks. 

“Right,” Blackwall says, surveying the resting troops. “Nice lot you’ve got here. Seems they’re taking to the training well.” The recruits chatter and stretch, care for new scrapes and bruises, but overall they seem positively jolly despite the hours of drilling. 

Cullen surveys the man out of the corner of his eye. “Most came to us quite untrained. Nothing a few weeks of hard work and the fear of the world ending can’t fix,” he says with a darker tone than intended. “They’ve learned quickly,” he adds, proudly. 

Nodding approval, Blackwall turns to face him. “From what I see, you’ve built a strong foundation. Clear leadership. Well organized. The Inquisitor has a good team of advisors behind her.” He crosses his arms in thought. “ _You’re_ clearly good at your job. Sister Nightingale is a formidable ally - I swear, the woman is the Black Widow at the center of the web. But the Lady Ambassador...I don’t know much of her other than the way she seems to find a way to smooth over every scrap or squabble in this town, all with a kind smile on her face.” 

Cullen shifts uncomfortably, uncertain what to say and certain that whatever he does, he’s digging himself a hole. “I’ve only been acquainted with Lady Montilyet for a few months, but she is a diplomat at the top of her class.” There. A perfectly acceptable answer. Perhaps he is not _so_ terrible at politics. “And I’ve not got much of a tolerance for diplomats.” A statement not untrue, yet he regrets the phrasing immediately.

“So you’ve not got a tolerance for Lady Montilyet,” Blackwall asks gruffly, eyeing him from under bushy brows. 

“N-no, that’s not what I meant,” he backtracks. “I just meant - _politics_. I dislike politics. Lady Montilyet is exceptional at her role and we’re lucky to have her.” He can’t seem to stop himself, trying to climb up out of the hole. “I only meant that I would never be able to do her job-”

Thankfully, Blackwall cuts him off. “I see. I’ve not much of a taste for politics myself, Commander. Lady Montilyet on the other hand…a fine woman.” He strokes his beard thoughtfully, nods his head.

The thought of Blackwall talking to Josephine, looking at Josephine, courting Josephine sends a pang of jealousy through Cullen’s body, resting in tense shoulders. _It is time for this conversation to be done,_ he thinks. “I apologize, Warden Blackwall, but it’s time for my soldiers to get back to it,” he says brusquely, loudly enough for his lieutenant to hear and begin rousing the troops. 

“Of course. I’ll leave you to it,” Blackwall responds, turning to leave. “Ah, Commander -- would you mind if I joined your drills for a bit tomorrow? Never a bad idea to see how your allies fight.” 

Cullen agrees (begrudgingly), bids the Warden farewell until tomorrow. He starts the troops on a series of counterattack maneuvers and watches closely, occasionally interrupting a pair to demonstrate a proper parry or how positioning their legs in such a way leaves them open to attack. It distracts him well enough, but then the sun is low and the drills are done. He excuses the recruits with a modest “good work today,” and heads back up into the village. As he walks, he thinks again about the Herald closing the breach as he trained his troops and prays again to the Maker for the Inquisition’s righteousness and the Herald’s safety. Ready for a hearty meal and a wash to rid himself of the dirt and grime, he enters the Chantry and heads towards the bedroom. 

As the door to the room creaks open, he hears an amiable laugh from behind him and glances over his shoulder. Across the hall, Blackwall stands across from Josephine’s desk. She smiles at him, attentive and open-faced. Blackwall’s posture is broad, shoulders back and chin high. Cullen imagines that he is quite pleased with himself. 

Stepping stiffly into the room, he feels his thoughts churn into a malcontent tornado of regret and jealousy, each thought crashing into each other and multiplying two more to the swirl. 

He stares into the washbasin at his disgruntled reflection, scoffs at himself and the situation and Josephine and how it’s been nearly a decade since he’s truly felt anything for anyone and the many complications of having any feelings at all. He wets a cloth, starts rubbing the filth of the training grounds off his face. The anger, jealousy, and disappointment boil in his belly. 

_Live with it. Move on. She clearly has._

The water in the bowl ripples lightly, disturbed by an invisible force. Cullen raises an eyebrow, bends to inspect the bowl, and a wild, clattering _boom_ echoes from the outskirts of Haven. He knows it in his gut: the Breach has been mended. 

***

Fiddles and lutes play jaunty tunes and the ale runs like rivers in Haven the night the Breach is closed. The courtyard is smoky and charged with joy. People laugh and sing and dance around the fires - this is a true victory, and they owe it all to the Herald and their strange, glowing mark. 

The party has hardly just begun, but already young ladies make eyes at grandstanding soldiers, encouraging them across the yard with broad smiles and raised drinks. Varric tells a tale to a captive audience around the fire, and Iron Bull and the Chargers have commenced a drinking game, yelling for anyone to dare try to out-drink them. 

Cullen strolls the grounds, ale in hand, taking the scene in from the edges of the crowd. The sky is clear for the first time in days, the sickening chartreuse of the Breach replaced with a peppering of bright white stars. There is much to celebrate, but the knots in his shoulders are still tight with anxiety. He takes a sip of ale, fruity and robust, and the celebration fades out of focus as he starts to turn the day over in his head. He can’t shake it. _Something isn’t right._

“Commander! Commander! Cullen!” 

The party slams back into focus at the sound of his name. The Herald yells over to him from outside the tavern, double fisting flagons of ale with a weary smile on their face. Josephine and Cassandra stand proudly at their side, albeit with the occasional disapproving glance at the drinks. He walks over to join them with a nod of greeting and rests his free hand on the pommel of his sword. 

“Congratulations, Herald. You’ve done it,” he says. The Herald shrugs passively. “Sure seems that way,” they respond. 

The Seeker is stern. “Solas confirms the Heavens are scarred, but calm. The Breach is sealed. We’ve reports of lingering rifts, and many questions remain. But this was a victory.”

“Word of your heroism has spread. I’ve already received letters from as far as Denerim. Give it only a day or two more and I promise they will flood in from Val Royeaux and beyond,” Josephine chimes in. Cullen notices a glass of golden mead cradled gracefully in her hand and his chest tightens.

“Yes, well, that’s all well and good,” he says. “But I have a feeling like this isn’t even close to over yet.” 

The Herald looks forlornly at the blanket of stars above them. No one responds, the sounds of Haven letting loose filling the uncomfortable silence. His words have soured the mood, as they tend to do. 

Cullen clears his throat, a bit rougher than he’d meant it to be. “On that note, I have some things to attend to,” he says, excusing himself. “Calibrations.” 

“Cullen, calibrations can wait until tomorrow,” Cassandra chides. 

“It’s important to celebrate our accomplishments together, as a community. You should take a moment to breathe, Commander,” Josephine implores, looking at him with soft eyes. 

His breath hitches as he locks eyes with her, but he breaks the gaze quickly. “Job well done, Herald.” He nods a decisive goodbye and strides off to calibrate the southern trebuchet. The Herald is right - this is an achievement, yes, but the war is far from won. The frozen snow crunches under his boots, each step a hypnotizing metronome that allows him to sink into his thoughts. 

Only five Inquisition soldiers had died in service of closing the Breach. To him, it is both five too many and somehow far fewer than expected. Fewer than expected means that they have overpowered the forces behind opening the tear in the Veil. It could also mean that perhaps they have underestimated the realities of their opposition. Which would mean there is more to come, though when he cannot say. But the trouble is, he hardly knows the opponent, an unnamed power from beyond the realm of the living. 

The trebuchet is manned by two soldiers, Figs and Oppstead, and they salute him upon his approach. Their noses are red from the cold, but they seem in good spirits.  
  
“At ease,” he says as he walks up. “How goes it, recruits?” 

Figs responds cheerfully, her white-blonde braids bobbing from side to side as she speaks. “Nothing to report, sir! Since the Herald closed the Breach, we haven’t seen any trouble out on the lake or beyond. Oppstead and I were just discussing how relieving it is to have a quiet night! We’re off in about an hour and we’re so excited to go to the party!” Oppstead shakes her head lightly as if Figs may be putting words in her mouth, just a bit. 

Cullen nods, though her confidence in the quiet makes him uneasy. “Oppstead, when did you last calibrate this trebuchet?”

She straightens rigidly, trying to mask the defensiveness rising in her husky voice. “Yesterday, sir. I’m sure you’ll see it’s in top shape if you inspect it.” 

“I’ve no doubt of that, but I think I’d like to try increasing the counterweight, aiming further out. Can you walk me through what you’d do to hit the treeline out there?” He points out far across the frozen lake. She brightens at his approval and bends down to start fidgeting with the ropes. 

As Oppstead and Figs calibrate the trebuchet to his specifications and explain their methods, Cullen’s mind wanders. These women are quite good at their jobs, and he is grateful for their knowledge and work. The responsibility for their lives weighs heavily on him, the lives of every member of the Inquisition. How does a commander of a small ragtag army prepare for such unknowable chaos? To him, the obvious answer is to recruit more, as much as possible. But to build an army, you need coin, coin which must come from somewhere, someone. That is the part he hates most, the political boot-kissing of power hungry middle men like Chancellor Roderick when the fate of the world is on the line.

They were lucky, he thinks, that Leliana brought Josephine in when she did. Right before things got well and truly terrible and the Breach split the sky. Now, the Inquisition had Josephine to handle the glad-handing and fundraising. As much as he may fight her on how she does her work and with whom, at the end of the day he knows they are in this for the same reasons.

Maybe this is what feels wrong about this evening. Maybe it’s not something from beyond the veil, maybe it is just Josephine. The gentle look she gave him as she sipped a glass of mead was a gut punch that brought him right back to how the warm candlelight of the tavern cast delicate shadows of her long eyelashes down her high cheeks. He supposes she has a point about taking time to celebrate, but while this party may be a boost for morale, this all feels far from over. Despite his feelings for her, perhaps it was a blessing in disguise to be rejected. It allows him to avoid distractions like a pretty woman making eyes at him over a drink, following him down a dark hallway and into a deserted bedroom and-- 

“Does that work for you, sir?” 

Cullen snaps to attention. “Sorry?” 

Figs smiles at him graciously. “I said, do these calibrations work for you, sir?” 

He rubs his eyes and the bridge of his nose, pushing it all to the back of his mind for now. “Ah, yes. Thank you. I appreciate your diligence. Let me help you clean up.” 

“Have you been at the party this evening, sir?” Oppstead asks, tossing a wrench haphazardly into the toolbag. 

He wipes some grease off the trebuchet, somewhat uninterested in this conversation. “Yes, it seems as if it’s just getting started.”

“Ah, I can’t wait to go,” Figs fawns. “I love parties! Music, and dancing, and everyone is so happy! I bet it’s even better when it’s as well-deserved as this one!” 

“I’ll bet you can really dance your tail off, Figgy,” Oppstead grins. “I’ll spin you around once or twice if you can’t get anyone else to go with you.” She lifts her chin and winks conspiratorially. 

He can’t tell if it’s the cold or Oppstead’s wink that makes Figs turn beet red, but she whips around to him and asks in a rush. “Commander, do you dance?” 

“Not if I can help it.” Oppstead snorts a laugh. “Though the band is playing some very jaunty tunes out there,” he laughs. 

Two guards walk up to relieve Oppstead and Figs. As he walks back to town alongside the women, he can’t help but grin at their friendly banter. He didn’t expect it, but their excitement is actually rubbing off on him. _Everyone celebrates, and I’m still worrying. What is wrong with me that I can't enjoy one win,_ he wonders disapprovingly. 

_“You should take a moment to breathe.”_

Figs and Oppstead are arm in arm ahead of him, nearly skipping to the party. The music and good cheer grows closer. As Cullen resolves to share a drink with the Herald tonight, a thundering _GONG, GONG, GONG_ of the warning bells echo threateningly over Haven. 

Preparing himself for the worst, he quickens his pace, unsheathing his sword as he approaches the gate. As much as he wishes it wouldn’t, he can't help the regrettable thought from weaseling through his mind. 

_I was right._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wah wah, we all know how well Haven goes. :( 
> 
> Your thoughts and feedback mean so much to me! Thank you!


	3. Aftershocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haven falls.

Once, many years ago, Josephine felt the ground quake beneath her. In a panic, her mother ushered the children under the breakfast table, clutching her babies to her breast. A mother hen tucking little chicks away, safe from harm. 

For Josephine, the world moved in slow motion. Her brothers grabbed at her sticky, jam-covered hands. The kitchen created a raucous melody: pots and pans clanged, jars rattled on shelves, and the heavy carved wood of the table bounced against the stone floor like a galloping horse. Bottles of oils and vinegars crashed down, and pots of flour shattered across the ground, peppering her navy linen dress with specks of powdery white dust. From under her mother’s pillowy arm, she watched out the open window into the arbor, generations-old olive trees swaying gracefully from side to side, bending as easily as salt taffy. And through it all, a peal of laughter. She still remembers the way the cook braced herself in the doorway, a gleeful smile on her weathered face, abandoning all fear to embrace the wave of everlasting universal chaos.

This is nothing like the day the arbor shook. 

The shocks in the ground are unnatural, disturbing. There is so much noise - screams of terror from every direction, far-off explosions that blast snow banks back up into the heavens. Her feet are heavy as icebergs, sinking deep into the ground as she watches villagers scramble to any safety they can find. Drinks flung aside and swords drawn, the Inquisitor and Cassandra bolt past her towards the attack. The ruby ale stains the snow the color of blood, a sight just visceral enough to snap her to motion and towards the fray to help, learn more, anything but quiver in her boots alone in the snow. 

“Forces approaching! To arms!” The Commander is atop a mound of snow at the entrance to the southern trebuchet directing troops and even amidst the pandemonium it crosses her mind that he looks like a storybook hero, valiant and striking. The troops launch into an elegant dance upon his order, snatching up weapons, flying out the gate and to the trebuchets, falling into well-practiced formations. Under better circumstances, their well rehearsed choreography would be beautiful.

As soon as he catches sight of her inching towards the gates, he bolts towards her, roughly grabbing her by the arm. A lock of golden hair is loose on his forehead and his eyes are dark with worry as he gives her a once-over - checking her to make sure she is fully intact, she thinks. Her stomach twists into a knot at his consternation and the feeling of his hand enclosed around her bicep. 

“Under what banner?” she manages. 

Grimly, confused, he responds, “None.”

“None?” She is incredulous. 

He opens his mouth to speak and the bells of Haven start ringing again, deafeningly loud as they echo off the mountains. Foreboding. He yells to her, hand still wrapped around her arm, but she can’t make out his words over the thundering bells. She thinks he commands her to go hide in her office, then draws his sword as another explosion hits the ground with a sickening crack. Whipping around, he gives her a parting glance, heavy with emotions she can’t parse, and points towards the Chantry. Before she can respond, he’s out the gate, a band of brave-faced soldiers at his back.

  
***

An interminable, bloodcurdling hour passes. 

The troops have fallen back and the survivors of the town huddle in the frail Chantry, no match for a hoard of demons, a dragon, _and_ an abomination calling himself the Elder One. Injured tend to the more injured and the hearty fortify the building as best they can, but everyone knows their chances are slim. Beside their quiet cries and moans, it is eerily quiet within the Chantry walls. The thick stone seems to keep the sounds of all but the worst explosions at bay. Were it not for that, one could almost pretend there was not a battle for their survival happening on the other side of the wall. 

Josephine is glued to a vault holding up one of the lithe arches in the Chantry’s ceiling. A bit of sour bile creeps up her throat and she coughs, choking her fear back down. _This is an assault, Josephine, not a joust,_ she thinks. _You cannot sit and observe on the side of the arena when everyone else is putting their lives on the line._

The Chantry doors slam open and a young man in a wide brimmed hat carries an injured Chancellor Roderick in, setting him down gently as the Herald and her crew file in behind him. Cullen is the last to storm through the door, slamming it shut against the onslaught. “They’ll kill everyone in Haven!” He yells raggedly, overwhelmed. Dark blood flecks his cheeks and armor and his hair is blown wild from its usual careful coif. He paces past the Herald, fists tight, and pauses, breathing deeply through his nose and out through his mouth as he considers the impact of his next words carefully. “Herald, there are no tactics to make this survivable. The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche. We could turn the remaining trebuchets, cause one last slide.”

The Herald looks at him in horror. “We’re overrun! To hit the enemy, we’d bury Haven.”

He lowers his voice, a determined rasp. “We’re dying, but we can decide how. Many don’t get that choice.” The Herald’s eyes shift back and forth rapidly as they process the utter bleakness of Cullen’s proposition. 

Quietly, across the hall, Chancellor Roderick, wilted and bloodied, croaks out a whisper. “Wait.” 

With wide eyes, they listen intently as Chancellor Roderick, a constant source of frustration and strain for the Inquisition, shares a distant memory of the winding path out of Haven and into the Frostback Mountains. Time is of the essence and the decision is made swiftly. Cullen directs the nearby soldiers to ready everyone to mobilize before turning to the Herald, righteously gritting out, “Keep the Elder One’s attention until we’re above the tree line. If you are to have a chance - if we are to have a chance - _let them hear you_.” 

Jaw set in resolution to give this Elder One hell, the Herald runs out the doors, Cassandra, Iron Bull, and Solas in tow.  
  
Turning away from where the strange, ethereal young man is comforting a dying Roderick, Cullen motions to Leliana to join him over by where Josephine stands. She finishes wrapping a bandage around a young woman’s bleeding calf and comes to them, arms clasped behind her back as she awaits instruction. He stalks over, stands toe to toe with them. When he speaks, his voice is low, severe, and his eyes are grim. “We are going to run. You have five minutes to grab whatever you may need.” 

Leliana nods sharply, immediately runs to grab her things from her tent. Josephine’s feet feel heavy as if she wears shoes made of lead. She still can’t muster herself away from the support of the pillar. Her lips tighten into a firm line as she wills herself away from it, but fear has paralyzed her. 

In a crisis, every moment is important. It is like a putty one can mold in their hands, each squeeze shaping the future in some untraceable but monumental way. Cullen is still close to her, close enough she can smell the sudor and ichor of hard fought battle on him, and can feel his heavy breath blowing against the wisps of hair around her face. She can’t bring herself to look him in the eye, ashamed at her lack of nerve. Tears prickle at her eyes and she stares bitterly at the ground, breath shallow and brows knitted as she locks on the gnarled wood floor. 

A moment passes, a moment they don’t have, and suddenly her hand is engulfed by his large, leather glove. It knocks the wind out of her chest and her chin up from the ground. Her eyes raise to meet his, the ocean crashing against the shore. His face is serious, but the way he firmly squeezes her hand is warm, intimate even, a respite in this elaborate chaos. It works. She swallows hard and squeezes back, then peels herself from the pillar in the direction towards her office. 

Her office is a frightful mess - books have fallen off the shelves and scattered across the room. Ink has spilled all over her desk, a black stream dripping into an onyx pool on the floor. A fine layer of dust from the blasts coat every surface. Hastily, she scoops up anything of importance she can find into a bag - correspondence from politicians, ink and pens, lists upon lists including one of every ally the Inquisition has made thus far and every one they need to secure. Time grows thin. She stands at her desk racking her brain for anything she has missed. _The letters._

As she races across the hall, a fiery blast hits the Chantry roof, knocking her down. Debris crumbles from the ceiling and as she blinks against the dust she watches in horror as Chancellor Roderick is buried by the falling rubble. 

“Josephine!” Cullen stands at the back door, signaling her to run towards him to safety. She looks at him, then to the bedroom - makes her choice. 

Raising an arm to her face against the smoke and soot, Josephine rushes into the bedroom, directly to the nightstand. Bent over the rustic drawers, she digs through to the bottom until she finds them, neatly tied together by string. Precious letters from her family, dating back through her time in Orlais. Nothing else seems important - but with her remaining moments she glances around frantically to see if she can grab anything important for her roommates. Cullen’s bed lays undisturbed, but his nightstand drawers are ajar. He must have rifled through them while she was in her office. Cassandra’s latest read lays open on the bed - she snatches it up, depositing it into the bag. A brief final glance around the room reveals nothing else besides her lute, and as she turns to leave, she already longs for it, this relic from another lifetime. 

***

Bodies litter the ground of Haven, victims of demons and explosions alike. The Commander leads the remnants of the Inquisition down a dark path, up and into the woods. The blissful, wildflower laden path that Chancellor Roderick described is nothing like the rugged treachery the survivors trek through. Ice and fallen branches block the path, and yawning chasms hide in shadows. 

As they make their way above the treeline, Josephine stumbles on a snowy rock, papers scattering out of her bag and into the wind. She grasps for them, falling to her knees to push whatever she can back into the sack. From behind her, a throaty voice says, “Wait - let me help you.” It is difficult to make out the figure through the darkness, but the voice is unmistakable. Warden Blackwall helps her up and shoulders the bag, ushering her forward into the mountains with a hand on her back. His touch is firm, grounding in a moment where she desperately needs it. 

The trees thin up ahead. In the sky a flame ignites, a small glow in the distance. As planned, Cullen shoots a fire arrow into the sky, signaling to the Herald that they have made it to relative safety. Breaths are held, fists tighten. Three terrifying minutes pass. Finally, finally, the Herald lets the trebuchet fly into the mountains. For a moment, she thinks the plan didn’t work, steels herself against their fate. Then, a broken roar erupts as the snow caps descend devastatingly on the town of Haven, burying friend and foe alike. 

***

When the ground stopped rumbling and the clattering of the kitchen quieted, Josephine and her family cautiously crawled out from under the table. In relief, her mother thanked the Maker, then swept up and kissed each child with a heavy peck on the tops of their heads before taking off to the docks to ensure their father’s safety. The cook smiled, began sweeping up the flour, laughing to the room about how the Maker had nothing to do with the fickleness of nature.

Her brothers ran off to play, but Josephine wandered out to the arbors, eyes high to the still gently swaying trees until she felt a squish under her foot. Glancing down, she realized she walked on ground littered with green-brown olives. Just ripe enough to salvage, despite their inauspicious harvest. Crouching to the ground, she lifted a plump one to her mouth, popped it in. Savored the salty earthiness as she surveyed the damage. Rolled the rough pit over her tongue. Waited for the aftershock.

This is what she ponders now, as she and Leliana and Cullen and Cassandra argue. After five frightful hours of huddling against the cold and believing all hope to be well and truly dead, the Herald and their crew have emerged alive. They rest, tucked away under Mother Giselle’s careful watch, safe, despite the discord. In this moment after tragedy, no one is their best self. 

Cullen and Cassandra snarl at each other, debating the minute and useless details rather than the enormity of the problem before them. Their arguments are futile and unreasonable, the biting words of people at their very wit’s end. It has been hours of bashing against each other like shields against brick walls, two warriors matched entirely in skill and stubbornness. Hours of trying to bring reason to a duel of bruised hearts and sneering lips. Leliana says little, merely interjecting every now and then to protect Josephine from their misguided sharpness. Josephine thinks of her mother cradling her and her brothers tight to her breast and the sway of the taffy trees. 

“That is absolutely nonsensical!” Cullen roars, rearing back. 

“Please!” Josephine cries, imploring them to stop for the hundredth time this hour. “We will get nowhere if all we do is snipe at each other.” 

“Enough,” Cassandra replies curtly. “I have had enough.” The Seeker turns with a dismissive wave of her hand, retreats to her maps to attempt to chart a course to anywhere. 

Cullen is furious, that much is clear from the way he opens his mouth to shout back at her. As he lurches forward to do just that, Josephine steps in his path, blocking him. With all the gravitas she can muster, she stares up at him, waiting. His gaze follows Cassandra over her head, but after a moment his gaze falls to her, still fiery and prideful. 

Her mouth is stern, but her eyes plead for him to stop. “Please,” she repeats. 

He doesn’t respond, but something like contrition passes through the fury. He casts his eyes down and shrugs away from her, heading off across the campground. She hopes it is to compose himself. 

Exhausted from the quarreling and the hiking and the running for her life, she collapses down onto a nearby bench. Head between her knees, she breathes icy mountain air deep into the wholeness of her lungs until it’s nearly painful. Leliana takes a seat on the ground next to her, defeat contorting her delicate face. _A few moments to recollect will be good for everyone_ , she thinks, rubbing the soft curls on the back of her neck. 

The vast emptiness of the mountains is near silent, save for the roiling wind blowing through the cavernous valley and the low rumble of the survivors in the camp. In the darkness, future uncertain, Josephine is petrified, though she does not want to admit it. She wants to turn to Leliana, her most trusted friend and confidant and say, _It should be comforting to know we have survived this, but I fear it is a horror yet to be known._ She keeps this to herself, a fear to be borne alone for now. 

A professional at finding silver linings, she pushes herself to find at least one. _At least the Inquisitor has survived_ . _At least my friends have survived. We are all very smart and we can find a way out together. If we can only stop bickering for a moment._

The wind swirls through her ears, whispering to her. The sound reminds her of a spiral shell her grandmother owned, stark white and briney with the scent of the sea even after years on the mantle. Her grandmother would hold it up to Josephine’s ear, telling her to listen to the sound of waves crashing against the shore whenever she wanted, that maybe the sea had a secret to share. She wonders if she listens hard enough to the wind if she can hear the secrets of the mountains as she once did the sea. Learn to shepherd them towards safety. 

A mellifluous voice cuts through the tense quiet, and she looks around to try to find the owner. From the crowd of tents, Mother Giselle rises, sings - a beautiful warm cello made mortal. 

_Shadows fall_

_And hope has fled_

_Steel your heart_

_The dawn will come_

The song is unfamiliar to Josephine, though it sounds distinctly likely a Chantry hymn. She looks up at the Revered Mother, steadfast and calming, and listens. Her voice is like molasses, smooth and syrupy as it glides over the camp. 

Leliana adds her voice, a lilting soprano flying high above the now-growing sound of voices. As she sings, she is emboldened, standing to join Mother Giselle. The Inquisition nears, builders and soldiers and cooks and squires joining the crowd around the meager fire pit.

_The shepherd's lost_

_And his home is far_

_Keep to the stars_

_The dawn will come_

A tenor emerges, soulfully assuring her that the lyrics of the song are the truth. She searches the crowd, follows her ear to find the owner and her eyes lock in on Cullen. His golden head tilts back, eyes closed, solemn. Devout. A feeling she has never known, but she watches as he sings, studying him from afar.

_The night is long_

_And the path is dark_

_Look to the sky_

_For one day soon_

_The dawn will come_

The sparse Inquisition is singing now, their chorus floating onto the winds and through the snowy mountains.

_Bare your blade_

_And raise it high_

_Stand your ground_

_The dawn will come_

Josephine knows these words now, too. She is not brave enough to sing them loudly, but she murmurs them under her breath, eyes sweeping and landing on Cullen. His voice is clear and warm as he croons the comforting hymn. 

_The night is long_

_And the path is dark_

_Look to the sky_

_For one day soon_

_The dawn will come_

His eyes lock with hers as the song comes to an end. She feels as though he can hear her heart beat faster from across the fire.

***

When the Herald comes to the advisors late that night, they can only assume it is with more bad news. Instead, their luck has turned. Solas reports a crumbled keep, abandoned and ready for inhabitants. Safety surrounded by frozen peaks. They leave before dawn the next morning.

The trek through the mountains is rigorous and the Inquisition is ill-prepared for such an ordeal. The air is thin this high up and they are traveling with a rag-tag band of survivors, not an army of well-trained soldiers. They make frustratingly frequent stops. It takes days, days of hunger and exhaustion, yet they set one foot in front of the other in front of the other, defiant against a world that seems to wish them death. 

Then they see it. 

Beyond the valley, tucked away into the crags of the Frostbacks, a keep wherein the Inquisition can build. Grow. 

Skyhold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing this chapter. I hope it came through. :) Though this chapter is titled Aftershocks, I really feel like I should have called it Eye Contact, haha. 
> 
> Thank you for your support and feedback!


	4. Tokens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Josephine and Cullen are assigned to the Haven memorial; Hawke's arrival stirs up anxiety for Cullen.

Another day, another overlong meeting.

It has been nearly a full month since the fateful night in Haven. Through the chaos of the attack and the seemingly never ending trek towards safety, a fortress had emerged. Though nearly lost to earth and time, and in desperate need of cleaning up, its bones were strong and its fortifications surprisingly sound. The moment they set eyes on it, the advisors knew it was perfect, some strange kismet handing it to them. Divine grace, Leliana had called it, and Cullen agreed. Standing on the craggy ridge overlooking the keep, he’d glanced down at Josephine. Her elegant silks and satins were caked in mud and blood, hair loose and wild. Through the trek he could tell how hard she tried to hide her misery, but in this moment her eyes were bright, determined. She knew exactly what to do.

The advisors stand around the war table sharing reports, strategizing on new recruits, and discussing Josephine’s latest improvements to Skyhold **.** Cullen tries his damnedest to focus, but his eyes fall to Haven on the map. He can nearly feel the blistering heat of a rage demon on his back as he ushered people out of the crumbling Chantry to safety. His fingers curl reflexively around the pommel of his blade, and he shakes it off, trying to channel his hearing at least, if he cannot focus his eyes. 

Leliana gives a report on the Inquisition’s reports from Crestwood: the Champion of Kirkwall’s Warden friend may have information regarding Corypheus, and from all reports believes that the Wardens may be under his influence. Of course, nothing is ever easy and he has disappeared in the marsh. Plans are made to track him down and the Herald, newly appointed the Inquisitor considers the team for this mission carefully. After some deliberation lands on Dorian for brains, Iron Bull for brawn, and Blackwall for his Warden background. 

The Inquisitor stands, raising their arms in a wide, yawning stretch. “Well, is that all I should know before I trek off into a bloody swamp full of gross, waterlogged undead?”  
  
Across the table, Josephine raises her quill. “I do have one more item of note,” she says, tone delicate and cautious. “Marquis DuRellion contacted me. You may recall he is the owner of the land on which Haven stood. He has asked for assistance building a monument at the site, to honor those who gave their lives.” 

The request sends a shock through him, and the rage demon returns, fire behind his eyes. The room is silent for a moment, the weight of the request and memories of the horrid day pulling them out of the immediacy of their mission at hand. 

“Of course,” the Inquisitor responds. He can’t quite place the expression on their face. “What does the Marquis need?” 

“Well,” Josephine offers, “I can do some fundraising for the project. And we should send a representative for the ribbon-cutting.” 

“Fundraising?” Cullen scoffs, crossing his arms at his armored chest. “No, the people who died in Haven were our own. I’m sure I can get some volunteers from our ranks to help with construction. It is the least we can do to thank them for their sacrifice.” 

Lips pursed, she gives him an eye, clearly irked by his tone. She turns to the Inquisitor. “If that is acceptable, Inquisitor?”

The Inquisitor sighs weightily. “Yes. It sounds quite fitting, Cullen. Josephine, work with him to make the arrangements. I’m sure some nobles will be more likely to pitch in if they know they don’t have to supply the manpower.” 

He notices the way shoulders tighten and her eyes flit away from him before she composes herself and replies, “...Right away.” 

“Very well. Thank you, everyone.” The Inquisitor nods and the group adjourns. Josephine speeds out the door, a few steps ahead of everyone else. He feels his mood turning cantankerous at the way she’d soured, the way she’d sped out the door. As he and the rest of the group start out the hall, he wonders if she’s avoiding him now and finds a fire building in his belly at the very notion of her playing games as if this were the Winter Palace and not organizing a war memorial. 

“ _Oh!_ ” Josephine exclaims. 

“Oh?” The Inquisitor sardonically repeats, turning out of the doorway.  
  
“I, there is a...a gift...” The Ambassador twirls around, revealing a large bouquet of curvaceous white and yellow flowers laying on her desk. The apples of her cheeks are bright and pink, and the look on her face marries shock and satisfaction.

“You have an admirer, Josie,” Leliana teases. “Though who among us could blame anyone who sets their sights on you.” The Inquisitor chortles in agreement. 

“Leliana, stop!” She giggles, waving a hand playfully at her. Sitting lightly at her desk, she begins shuffling papers and opening envelopes to feign focus in her work.

Cullen hangs back, eyeing the vase rather acrimoniously, to his dismay.

“Well, we’ll leave you to your _budding_ romance,” the Inquisitor laughs, self-satisfied with their pun, and heads for the door. Leliana rolls her eyes and follows suit, chiding the Inquisitor for the characteristically bad joke. 

As he stands in the hall, he sees it happen, a phenomenon he’d merely heard described and had mercifully never been on the receiving end of until now. The mask settles onto her face, grand and aloof, as though she is left alone with a visiting dignitary’s valet rather than a trusted peer. That she’s chosen to put on this face with him...He squares his shoulders, puffs his chest a bit, despite himself.

“Have you an inkling who they may be from?” It is unlike him to be so nosy, but he finds a striking curiosity about these flowers sitting right between his ribs. 

Josephine coyly tucks a strand of hair behind her ears. “I do,” she replies, eyes fixed on the letter she is not reading. He can take a hint: what she’s really saying is _I don’t see why that’s any of your business._

“Ah,” Cullen grunts weakly. “Well. Good day, Lady Ambassador.” He nods his head at her, and turns on his heel to go. 

“Commander,” she responds. 

Cullen looks over his shoulder as he leaves and sees Josephine wistful, head in hand, stroking the soft petals of the flowers. 

*******

The door creaks shut behind the Commander and Josephine wilts into her chair, pretenses of nonchalance dropped. His miffed expression, the way he eyed the flowers as if poison hid within their petals, makes her annoyed - indignant, even, that he dares to have an opinion at all of her dalliance with Blackwall, or anyone else for that matter. 

She’d seen countless towns and small folk played as pawns in romance turned politics, enough broken engagements tearing apart already precarious countries, to know that a relationship between leaders, people pulling the strings of nations like her and Cullen, could only lead to injury. Out of sight, a desert or an ocean away, an entire town might starve because she chose to spend her time with him rather than negotiating with an arl. Supply lines would be cut and no one could get flour for months, and mothers couldn’t bake bread, and their babies would starve, and she would know that it was because she couldn’t stop herself from becoming entangled. She would not allow his feelings or hers to get in the way of helping the people they claim to serve and protect. 

And now, the Inquisitor commands they work on this memorial together, as if she were incapable of managing the process herself. Cullen had appealed to the Inquisitor’s grief by suggesting volunteers from Inquisition ranks, while Josephine knew that his way would take longer, cost more, and result in an ill-built memorial made by soldiers rather than trained craftsmen. Likely, it would hardly make it through one hard winter before falling apart, and then it would have to be done again. 

She’s so annoyed by his intrusion into her work, she can’t concentrate. Just when she’s lost all sense of productivity, a distraction comes. At the door there are three raps in quick succession. 

“Yes,” she inquires, straightening in her seat and smoothing her hair. The door swings open and Varric steps in, a schadenfreude-laced look of amusement on his face. “Curly walked out of here looking pretty surly.” He tilts his head back, a look of inspiration drawn across his face, and chuckles mockingly. “Surly Curly. Shit, now that’s a kid’s book waiting to happen.”

“Can I help you, Varric?” she sighs, pulling a fresh sheet of parchment and dipping her pen in blue ink.

“Just wondered what all the fuss was about.” He takes a seat in one of the plush chairs in front of her desk and settles in deep. “Come on, Ruffles. Get it out, it’s good for you.” He winks and laces his hands together over his stomach.

 _The man is worse than old biddies around the washing_ , she thinks, _refusing to leave until he hears the latest gossip._ She sighs, reluctantly setting the pen back into the inkwell. “Marquis DuRellion has requested Inquisition support to build a memorial to Haven,” she states, and they nod at each other in agreement that this is a fine use of time and resources. “I am more than capable of the task myself, and the diplomatic opportunities within the region are vast, but the Commander insists that the Inquisition soldiers should handle the building.” Her irritation begins to creep in through each word until her voice has raised an octave by the end.

Goading her into speculation, he inquires, “Can’t you see the value in that?” 

“Of course I can,” she nearly snaps. “I’m quite aware that the optics of the Inquisition rebuilding the town and erecting the monument is powerful, inspirational at a time when people desperately need it.”

Varric continues prodding. “And?”

She continues her list. “And the occasion to officially mourn and remember together is important for the community. For morale.” 

“Yes. People need the space to grieve, and some of them do it by lifting heavy shit or building things. Give it to them,” he offers. 

“Certainly, but the strengthening of relationships with local nobility is not something to turn one’s nose up at." She shakes her head. "Why not include them in the process? They will appreciate the opportunity to serve and will come to know the Inquisition while they do.” 

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “Or maybe it will be another headache to manage. Regardless, you don’t need to solve it tonight. What you need is to get your mind off things. My friend Hawke - the Champion of Kirkwall, _I don’t know if you’ve heard of her-”_ he says slyly, “- is in town and I’d love for you to meet her. Join us for dinner tonight! A bunch of us are meeting in the main hall.” 

She considers it. “I do have a lot of work to do tonight, Varric. I don’t know…”

He crosses his arms and his lips curve into a smug, prying grin. “So, who are the flowers from?” 

She smooths her hands across the oak desk, chewing her lips as she decides whether or not to share. “Ah-- I’m not sure I should tell,” she whispers conspiratorially. 

Varric leans forward in the chair and feigns sincerity. “Oh, I’m sure you’re not.” 

“It is merely a diversion from all... _this_ ,” she says, flustered. “It’s hardly viable. But it does lighten one’s mood.” 

He raises an amused eyebrow. “So, Blackwall? He’ll be at the dinner.” 

“Varric!”

“What?” He stands and moves to the doorway. “It’s pretty obvious he’s pining after you, Ruffles. The braids in his beard have been looking particularly well kept when you’re around.”

***

Evening falls and a number of the Inner Circle join together to dine in the bustling Great Hall. Varric regales the table with a winding story of half-truths and quarter-lies about Hawke, who sits across the wide planks, piping in with details here and there. The Inquisitor, Blackwall, Josephine, and Cassandra are rapt, while Dorian and Iron Bull pretend to listen, but eye each other coyly between bites of thick bread. 

Cullen lazily swerves his spoon through his stew, pushing the misshapen tubers through thick brown soup. Lyrium withdrawal has been getting the best of him this week, and Hawke’s arrival has brought up memories of dark days, ten long years spent serving a corrupt commander in Kirkwall. 

He tries to listen to the tale, hoping to take his mind off his responsibilities and sour stomach. A hearty stew and warm tale should be inviting on a blustery day like today. He stares into the ceramic bowl, gingerly eyeing the carrots floating atop the liquid, wondering if they could be the cure to his troubles. His stomach turns. _Perhaps not._ He pushes the bowl aside, defeated. He’d not quite been following Varric’s story, but then he hears his name. 

Varric is standing now, “Well, then, who walks in but the Knight-Captain himself, our dear Lord Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford, and I swear I’ve never seen such ire on man or demon’s face! Needless to say, we ran away. Isn’t that right Hawke?” 

“That’s about the long and short of it,” she laughs. “Never a good sign when a Templar Knight-Captain walks into a brothel.” 

Cullen flushes. “Well, I, it’s not like I was there for-,” he stammers. “I was looking for _you_.” 

His voice seems loud against the quiet of the hall as servers begin to clear away abandoned wine goblets and crusts of bread. The table breaks into laughter again, and Cullen leans back in his chair amiably. His eyes wander to Josephine making quiet conversation with Cassandra, and he notices the way she simpers over her goblet like they’re sharing a secret. Cullen thinks it odd, her having joined the evening meal for once rather than dining at her desk with only the company of her fine quills and official papers. Then she smiles across the table at Blackwall, and it strikes him who the flowers on her desk were from. Another wave of nausea passes over him, this time perhaps not from the lyrium. 

Dorian and Iron Bull stand and bid their good nights, and Josephine follows suit, saying something about letters that need to be written. As she stands, she makes eye contact with Blackwall, and angles her head down in a gesture of...something. Cullen watches with just a hint of resentment that he tries to ignore as Blackwall’s dark eyes follow her to her office. 

“ _Cullen._ ” Startled, he looks around to see who tries to get his attention. A few seats down Hawke grins at him. “I finally get the chance to talk to you. It’s been awhile - you seem...good.” Her eyes dart to Varric for a moment. “Different.” 

“Oh. Yes.” He’s not quite sure how to respond. She’s right, of course, but how does he begin to explain the last two years and every way he has changed. “I...yes.” He tries to smile, but the reality feels a bit too solemn for that. 

Hawke looks him up and down, perhaps considering her words. She leans forward, resting her smirking face on her fist. “Well, your hair seems different, at least. What are you using these days, Madame Ubeski’s Hair Wax for Men?” 

“No, it’s Zebulon’s Pomade,” Cassandra says smugly. “When we shared a room, he used to do his hair before Josephine and I woke up, as if we wouldn’t know.” Cullen snaps his head to her, betrayed. 

Varric sighs with amusement, throwing an arm around Cassandra’s shoulders. “Ahhh, Seeker, I knew I liked you for a reason.” She looks at it, a funny look of deliberation skewing her face. Varric winks at her, and she shrugs it off with a disgusted roll of her eyes. Varric leans back in his chair and grins in satisfaction. 

Painful acid creeps up Cullen’s throat, and he stands, perhaps a bit too abruptly. The combination of his withdrawal and the threat of having to recount anything from Kirkwall is too much for this evening. “I apologize, Hawke, I have some work to attend to. We’ll catch up later.” 

“Aw, you’re embarrassed! I’m sorry,” Hawke drawls. “Don’t leave!” 

He throws a half-smile on to mask his discomfort. “Hawke, it’s fine, I just have work to do.” He’s saying his goodbyes as his eye settles on where Josephine sat, nestled between Varric and Cassandra, and notices she has left something behind. 

As the table is begging him to stay, he wanders over to the spot, and picks up the white piece of fabric, a lacy, frilly thing. “Is this yours, Varric?” he japes.

“Ha, ha,” Varric says. “Must be Josie’s.” Cullen turns the handkerchief over, and delicately embroidered gold initials _JCM_ glint at him in the candle light. 

“I’ll return it to her,” he offers. Cassandra regards him oddly for a moment, a question behind her eyes that she doesn’t make verbal, but Varric launches into a story that wins her attention. 

He turns to head towards Josephine’s office, but the burn of acid in his chest and stomach and the tired ache in his bones say otherwise. It can wait until tomorrow. He makes his way to his office as quickly as he can to avoid being drawn into any conversation, and reaches it blessedly without distraction. The room is dimly lit when he enters, and his eyes take a moment to adjust. There is, of course, a new stack of missives on his desk. With a yearning glance at the ladder to his room, he shuffles over to give them a glance before he retires for the night. 

As he sorts through them (requisitions for pikes and swords, notices of Dagna’s experiments over the next week or so), his eyes keep flicking over to the bottom right hand drawer of his desk. Sighing, he sinks into his chair and opens the drawer, just to look. The lacquered box lays dormant, but the way the candles reflect off of it teases him, and a thick wave of shame washes over him. It’s been nearly six weeks since he’d stopped taking the lyrium, but the pull is still there in every moment of every day. The siren song of lyrium calls to him and he is a lonely sailor, reckless and unmoored. _Whole again in an instant,_ it croons. His mouth pulls into a frown, deep and regretful for even considering such a thing. With more force than intended, he kicks it shut with his boot and propels himself out of the chair. 

Handkerchief still in hand, he climbs the cursed ladder to his bedroom and grouchily lobs the lace onto his nightstand. The effort it takes to rack his armor is far more than he’d like. He sits on the edge of his bed, rubbing an oakmoss and elderflower salve into his swollen, sore joints, massaging it into the base of his neck. He’d learned of the remedy on the trip from Kirkwall back to Ferelden. An old, toothless sailor practically bathed in the stuff and had certainly been the nicest smelling one out of all the sweaty, salty men on the ship. When Cullen asked about it, the man rubbed a dollop into his hand and gave him the tub. The relief from the stress and aches of fifteen years of service was immediate. 

Laying back, he lets the salve work its charms and his body slowly, gratefully, relaxes into the bed. The cool night air wafts through the hole in the roof, and clouds pass by, the occasional swatch of shining stars visible behind them. Unfortunately, the sleep he is desperate for does not claim him. Instead, he lays there and sees cold blue eyes, a shock of white-blonde hair, a leader he had blindly followed until the end.

“Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter,” Meredith had prayed as she succumbed to madness - a bastardization of his faith that shook him to the core. On the daily, he keeps Kirkwall in a box, filed away in a cabinet that he does not open, but Hawke’s mere presence has him stuck in an endless memory loop of needless violence and mistakes-made. As he lays there, he tries to tuck them back into the box, hoping they won’t creep out into his dreams. 

Closing his eyes, he runs through the list of work he needs to get through, his version of counting sheep. Making sure to send the Inquisitor off with plenty of grenades to ward off undead. Sending reinforcements to the Storm Coast. Preparing for the visit to the ruins of Haven at the end of the week.

 _Remember_ , he thinks as he slides into sleep, _return_ _Josie's handkerchief._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you’re enjoying! Your comments, kudos, and just taking the time to read brightens my day. :)


	5. Graveyard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The return to Haven goes rather poorly.

“But did you hear the way he spoke to me last night?” 

Leliana sighs lightly over her reports. “He did have a...tone,” she offers noncommittally, taking a sip of her tea. 

After a night of sorely little sleep, heart teeming with anxiety for the day’s return to Haven, Josephine sits at her vanity preparing for the day. At a desk, with ink and paper for weapons, Josephine controls the narrative. Be it in peace or war, to cut or to mend, she deftly weaves strings into the perfect story, a beautiful tapestry. At her vanity, Josephine controls _her_ narrative. Charcoal about her eyes or a stroke of crimson on her lips - a different effect for every need. Today’s calls for a hint of powder under the eyes to mask the telltale circles of a restless night.

“Honestly, it is insulting when he speaks to me like that in front of the Inquisitor,” she shakes her head as she taps the powder on. “He was so quick to tell me it ‘simply would not be possible,’ with that tone that says there’s no room for negotiation. It’s as if he thinks a carriage to be an unnecessary luxury, when in fact it is a superior practicality.” Her hands fly around as she speaks, gesturing broadly. “It’s a five hour ride on a good day, so there and back is a full day that neither of us are at liberty to do our work. I simply suggested a carriage as an alternative to horseback to allow us the freedom to work on the ride.”

Leliana flips through the report she’s reading and makes a few marks with a quill as she responds. “He said Scout Harding reported felled trees and snow too deep for a wheel to contend with. That’s hardly his fault.”

She doesn’t respond, instead sipping her coffee and ruminating on his reaction. Cullen’s response to her innocent suggestion was one of judgement. In the moment she moved beyond it, other matters at hand and Leliana and the Inquisitor’s valuable time to not waste. But the dismissive tone of his voice, the way he shifted back and forth. How he raised his chin and refused to meet her eye. It hits her like a slap in the face - he thinks her _frivolous._

Frivolous, indeed! 

A sudden spark of indignation catches flame in her chest and Leliana raises her eyebrows, bracing herself. “He thinks me a delicate flower, too fussed about my silks and satins dragging in the mud to do work he deems most important.”

“I do not think that’s true,” Leliana says, lifting a pastry to her mouth and taking a bite.

With a knowing look, Josephine counters, “He thinks the carriages were a waste of funds.”

Leliana swallows her pastry, and nods through a gentle laugh. “Well, _that_ is certainly true.” 

A flaky crumb stays behind on the corner of Leliana’s lip and Josephine raises a finger to her own lip to point it out as she responds. “But you agree with me - the carriages are a sound investment.” 

“One cannot arrive at the Winter Palace on horseback.” Leliana shrugs, dusting the crumb away and lifting her reports back up. It is a simple answer for an undeniable truth. 

“We’ve made quick work of creating a name for ourselves, and we need to make a good impression from the moment we arrive.” She shakes her head and crosses the room to gather her new riding boots. “He doesn’t understand.”

Leliana gives a small smile, one that almost feels like an adult explaining something to a small child. “It’s not his world.” 

“It is now.” Josephine struggles to sheath her feet and calves in the tight boots. “Hmm, I should have ordered these weeks ago, they need to be broken in,” she frowns, wiggling her feet inside the leather. Bouncing to her feet, she plants her hands on her hips and sighs. “I suppose I should go.” 

“Josie, it’s not even half past, finish your breakfast,” Leliana says disapprovingly as Josephine dons her coat and gloves. 

“The sooner we leave, the sooner we’re back,” she responds, slinging a sturdy leather bag over her shoulder. It is empty, to be filled with anything she can salvage from her office. With each step, her new riding boots pinch at her toes, and she sighs in exasperation once again at having to ride on horseback to Haven. 

***

There is a definite chill in the lights and shadows of early spring. Enormous piles of ice-capped snow coat the edges of the keep walls. Descending the rocky stairs is a bit of a gamble this early in the morning - any snow that melted through the day has turned them icy slick overnight. Unused to climes such as these, Josephine bundled up in a white wolf fur coat and cobalt calfskin gloves to combat the cold, but it’s not enough - she rubs her hands together to warm them as she makes her way carefully down the steps and into the courtyard. This early in the morning, there aren’t many people around, mostly merchants setting up their tents and wares and soldiers swapping shifts. 

As she makes her way down near the surgeon’s makeshift hospital, Cullen comes into view, talking with a few soldiers near the front gate. The morning sun peeks out around the keep, shining against his hair like a gilded crown. He is too far away to hear but he speaks to them with the open stance and kind eyes of a well-meaning teacher or perhaps a father. One of the soldiers gestures towards her, and he turns towards the stairs to greet her with a crooked half-smile, casual, friendly, and achingly charming. She’s seen it before many times - it’s the one that nearly convinced her to throw all caution to the wind one snowy evening. Certainly not one that will draw her in today. 

Nodding cordially at him helps her suppress the resentment that simmers right below her collarbone. It threatens to burst up and out of her throat at the wrong word or look from him. She quickens her clip as she passes, but his strides are longer than hers and the gravel crunches behind her signaling that he has swiftly caught up. In her peripheral he appears, a mass of fur and shining armor. “Good morning,” he says lightly, adjusting his vambraces as he slows his pace to match hers. 

“Good morning, Commander,” she replies in a polite clip. As much as she doesn’t want to engage in conversation, she offers, “Did you sleep well?”

His response is delayed and he clears his throat like he’s thrown off by the small talk, or maybe the topic. “I, ah - yes, of course. I trust you did as well.”

“Yes, thank you.” No need for him to know of the extra time in front of her vanity this morning trying to disguise the light purple moons under her eyes. “I know we’re not supposed to leave for another hour - please don’t rush on my account. We can leave when you’re ready.” 

“If we leave now, we’ll return sooner,” he shrugs. The familiarity of his statement throws her, having said nearly the same thing to Leliana not ten minutes prior. Her eyes dart to the side, hardly turning her head to look at him. He wears a look similar to the one she knows from her own face - one of barely compartmentalized dread. 

They reach the barn and Cullen raps his knuckles on the frame, one, two, three. Rays of light break through cracks and holes in the roof, and the air is hazy with soft glitters of dust and hay. She makes a mental note to speak with the architects about repairs before the rainy season.

“Lady Montilyet, Commander,” greets Blackwall. He sets down something he’s whittling, a doll, she thinks, and motions them in. “I hear you’re headed back to Haven today to begin work on the memorial. Good of you.” 

“We’re just going for a few hours to oversee construction, make sure everything is running according to plan,” she smiles. 

“Long trip for short work,” Blackwall comments.

Before she can respond, Cullen cuts in. “You’re working with Master Dennet now?” He rests his hand on the pommel of his sword, back straight as an arrow. 

“Aye, he had to go back to his homestead for a few weeks so I’m filling in for him.” Blackwall points off to the corner of the stable. “Bishop is ready to go, Commander, saddled up and everything. Might want a long drink before you take off, though.”

Cullen gives a curt, “thank you,” and walks over to his steed, pulling a shiny, ruby red apple out of his pocket. The onyx horse’s eyes brighten at the sight of him, and he leans out of his stall to nip for the fruit. “Hello,” he says softly. “I brought you a treat.” It’s sweet and gentle, and despite her irritation she finds she doesn’t want to look away.

“M’lady, I’ve got yours over here,” Blackwall gestures to a lithe mare, butter yellow with a dark brown mane and rings painting her eyes. “Her name is Moira.”

“Like the Ferelden queen?” Cullen asks, cracking the apple in two and holding half out for Bishop. Moira’s great head snaps towards the sound of the apple splitting and she eyes it hungrily as Bishop snacks. 

Blackwall nods approvingly. “The very one. Inspires confidence in everyone she meets.” He crosses his arms and looks the mare over approvingly. “Powerful,” he declares. “Fast when you need it, but sweet as honey. She’ll be good to you.” 

“What a wonderful namesake. She’s beautiful,” Josephine murmurs. Moira’s shiny coat is like the finest Antivan velveteen under the pads of her fingers as she smooths up and down the mare’s sinewy neck. 

“She is,” Blackwall mumbles through his coarse beard, and she feels his eyes sweeping over her, heavy and wanting. She tenses under his gaze, at his hackneyed flirtation, at Cullen bearing witness to it all - she can nearly hear his eyes rolling. Moira huffs loudly and nudges towards the apple, knocking against her haphazardly. Bishop kerns his head towards it, too, large nostrils sniffing in the tart sweetness. She flexes her toes against the confines of her tight boots, desperate for relief.

“Here,” Cullen mutters, breaking the uncomfortable silence before she can. Shifting from side to side, he offers her the other half of the apple. “She’s jealous.” 

Eight eyes follow as she turns from Moira and Blackwall to Cullen - it feels strangely like a choice under the weight of them. As she takes the fruit from his hand, she feels it more than she sees it - a slight tremor running from wrist to fingertips. Before she has time to parse what she’s seen, his hand is gone, pulling at Bishop’s reins and leading him out of the stable. Pushing aside her concern, she turns back to Moira and raises the chunk of apple to her mouth, chuckling lightly as fuzzy lips gently graze her palm.  
  
Blackwall opens the gate to Moira’s stall and leads her out after Cullen. When they reach the clearing, Blackwall turns to her reins in hand, a bit bashful. “Would you like a boost, m’lady?” 

She glances up at Cullen, settling in on Bishop’s saddle and looking like he’s trying awfully hard not to stare. The awkward moment in the stable has been far more than enough discomfort for one morning. More than that, she’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself, and for some reason she feels the need to prove it to these men. Declining politely, she hoists herself up onto the saddle and bids him farewell. With a light nudge, Moira walks on. 

***

For nearly the entire ride, they discuss the Inquisitor’s mission for Hawke’s friend in Crestwood, trying to walk down the potential paths and outcomes it could bring. The conversation is light, exploratory, and with no one else around they speak to each other more candidly than usual. 

Even in her furs and leathers and with the activity of the ride, Josephine is cold. Without looking she knows her face is chapped bright red from the frigid air, and she huddles into her coat for warmth. A small complaint falls from her lips before she has the good sense not to say it. “I’m freezing! I do wish the carriage could have made it through the snow!”

“Yes, well, I am terribly sorry we weren’t able to take a carriage, but you know how we have to make do, _m’lady,”_ he grunts, uncharacteristic mockery dripping from the ends of his words. 

His words sting, but she won’t play into it, especially the way he imitates Blackwall. He could do with a bit of chivalry, for all she’s concerned. “Why are you doing this? When did you decide to be so crotchety today?” she asks pointedly, cutting to the root of the issue. With no one around but him, she drops the pretense of professionalism they have so clearly thrown to the wayside.

His face twists into a scowl and he adjusts Bishop’s reins in his hands. “I am not _crotchety_ . You wanted to take a carriage.” 

“What does that have to do with anything? I wanted to take a carriage so I could work while we rode,” she reminds him, jaw setting tightly. “It was all in the interest of time.” 

He shakes his head stubbornly, but keeps his eyes forward. “The carriages were an unnecessary expense in the first place. We could have outfitted twenty recruits in golden armor for what we spent on three carriages. And for what? To impress some nobles?”

She bites out a sardonic laugh and turns to look at him. “I do not think you understand how important our appearance will be to the Orlesian court next month. People live and die for much less.”

Disbelief clouds his features. “Live and die over less than _carriages_? You’re right, I do _not_ understand,” he grumbles critically.

“The money has already been spent, Commander,” Josephine tuts. “I suggest you direct your ire and attention elsewhere and stop idling over this. Carriages are a necessary expense for a high risk diplomatic mission and they will be a useful transportation tool in the future in any case.”

“A high risk ball?” he says incredulously, then mutters, “It had better come with high reward.”

“You yourself have said that the support of the Orlesian army is tantamount to survival,” she states, taking as calm and logical a tone as possible. “As the Inquisition’s Ambassador, I am telling you: this is how we get it.”

“Through riding carriages and charming nobles,” he sighs, bending forward to pet Bishop on the side of his neck. 

She’s right, he knows she’s right, and she can’t resist this opportunity to poke at him. “Don’t forget dancing.” 

Aghast, he snaps up to look at her, searching her face for any dishonesty in her words. “Dancing!” 

The frantic nature of his tone charms her, but she swallows any laughter and replies solemnly. “Oh yes, it’s quite important that every member of the Inquisition’s party in attendance must know at least the Saltarello and the Allemande. We’ll start lessons next week after the Inquisitor returns from Crestwood so everyone can go into the mission prepared.”

He’s quiet for a moment, probably mulling over just how right she is. “I suppose I can see how all of that may be important somewhere like the Winter Palace, but I don’t see how it makes sense in Haven.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she says, eyebrows furrowing quizzically.

He takes a deep breath, then begins speaking with an unexpected intensity. “The Inquisitor said we should use our soldiers, but you keep trying to involve nobles when they really don’t belong in this issue at all.” She stares at him, teeth grinding as she listens. “You are more concerned about appearances than the actual people we’re building this memorial for. The deaths of civilians are not a _political play_.”

 _How dare he._ She yanks Moira’s reins and the mare obediently halts in her tracks. Cullen turns to look at her, and upon realizing she has stopped, steers Bishop to get a better view. The horses meet in a T-shape, their riders eyes throwing daggers at each other. For a moment, she sees a flash of regret across his face as he realizes the depth of his insult. 

“That is truly what you think of me?” she grits out. Her blood boils and she is no longer cold, wearing her fury like the warmest overcoat. “Need I remind you that _I_ am the one who wrote letters to the families of the deceased, informing them that their child or husband or niece was dead?” He is completely still atop his steed, expressionless, and it fuels her anger. How can he throw out such words of contempt and then refuse to even grace her with an expression?

“You say the lives of civilians are not a political play, but this is what you do not understand - life is politics. To allow their squandered lives to mean something, I reached out to ‘those nobles’ to appeal to their hearts - they raised money for 67 funerals of those who died at Haven. They have opened their purses to rebuild Skyhold, to fund the Inquisition’s travels and recruitment, to train and outfit _your soldiers_ so we can stop _the end of the world.”_ At least he has enough humility to look ashamed as she recounts the value of her work.

“ _Cullen_ ,” she implores. “Who do you think I am that I would not carry every name of every person we have buried etched into my mind? That I do not see Haven buried under demons and snow every time I lay down to rest?” 

His mouth drops open in shock, he looks appalled by her accusations. When he responds, his tone is earnest in its dismay. “Maker’s breath, Josephine, of course I don’t think that!”

She waits for him to say what he does think. When she is met with silence, she pulls ahead of him and they ride in bitter quiet until they find Haven. 

***

“Lady Montilyet!” Marquis DuRellion raises a hand in greeting as they approach the charred skeleton of Haven. His bright yellow garb and mask are garish against the backdrop of the razed town, and Cullen’s mouth twists in barely hidden distaste. As soon as they are close enough, he dismounts Bishop, handing the reins off to a waiting attendant. He nods a hello at the Marquis and turns to assist Josephine. 

“My dear Marquis,” Josephine responds with the warmth and decorum of a professional. It as if they had not just quarreled. He is about to offer her a hand down, but she slides gracefully off Moira, nodding genially at the woman who leads the horses to the water troughs. 

“Welcome,” the Marquis says, walking towards them with open arms. “Lady Montilyet, thank you for the Inquisition’s commitment to Haven. Now that the snow has mostly melted enough from the, well the...avalanche,” he says the word avalanche carefully, treading lightly so as not to cast blame towards his beneficiary. He clears his throat, a raspy, haughty sound. “Now that the snow has melted enough we can begin to rebuild and erect a monument worthy of Haven’s lost souls.” 

He offers a gloved hand out to Cullen. “Commander Rutherford, thank you for your troops assistance in this matter.”

Cullen clasps the Marquis’ hand in a firm shake and is unsurprised to find the man’s hand limp as a rag. “It is no trouble at all. Everyone is a volunteer,” he says. 

“Much appreciated, much appreciated. I’ll show you around, but I’m afraid there’s not yet much to show,” the Marquis chuckles nervously. “Follow me, if you’d please.” 

Josephine glues herself to the Marquis, peppering him with questions as to the expected speed of the project, if they’ve sourced a designer for the monument, if the nobility in the area had held up their promises of donations. He weaves them through the ruins, pointing out areas they will adjust the layout of the town or rebuild. Cullen hangs behind them, surveying the battered remains of the town. Hardly anything is left standing. Cottages burnt, gate toppled, tavern decimated. There was nothing they could have done to stop this destruction, but the loss weighs on him like an anvil on his chest.

The Marquis leads them to the spot in front of the Chantry where Leliana’s tent once was. The area has been tidied, now a barren patch of uneven snow. “We considered putting the memorial down at the lake, but we felt this was the right place for it. To keep a watchful eye over us...or something like that.” 

“It’s lovely,” Josephine agrees. She turns to him expectantly. “Don’t you think?”

“Yes,” he says, ready to make an escape from the highlights tour of a town-turned-mass-grave. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to sort out the details. I’m going to speak with the foreman and make sure they have everything they need. Ambassador, please find me once you’ve finished with the Marquis.” She looks surprised, but nods her understanding. He wanders off to speak with the Inquisition volunteers. 

*** 

While Josephine works logistics with the Marquis, Cullen makes sure to speak to each Inquisition volunteer and thank them for their time and service. Knowing how long these kinds of conversations can last, he finds his feet carrying him towards the southern trebuchet, the last place he’d been before all hell broke loose.

The trebuchet lays in shattered pieces. Beside it, a solitary boulder waits for a use that will never come. Fractures in the stockade allow glimpses at the thawing lake, and he remembers how he spent the evening of the attack waiting for another. Perhaps he should have celebrated with them all anyway - a night of drinking and dancing likely wouldn’t have changed the survival of Haven, and maybe he would have had fun for once in his life. Instead, he spent the night calibrating trebuchets and avoiding any possible chance at happiness, per usual.

Taking a seat on the remains of the trebuchet, he confronts the ache of guilt that sits heavy in his heart. He is no stranger to this feeling, memories of Kinloch Hold and Kirkwall weaving into every twisted opportunity they can find. Josephine’s candid passion had nearly left him speechless. He knows his words were callous, completely unfeeling to the plight of the Ambassador, constantly balancing everyone’s feelings on a tightrope. Her desire to include them in a memorial for a town and movement they had almost written off leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Overall, it is not her work he disrespects, it is the titled nobility whom she works with that he finds ludicrous. He had spent the final, silent jaunt to Haven trying to find the right words to apologize. Still, every phrase he conjures does not seem to capture the depth of what he knows she deserves. He had been in a decent mood this morning, aches and pains considered, but at some point his mood had shifted and she had gotten the brunt of it. He struggles through the timeline of the day, trying to identify the exact moment. 

“Thought I might find you here.” A lilting voice cuts through his thoughts. He turns to see the subject of his thoughts standing a few feet behind him, cold rosy cheeks bright against the white of her coat. “I’m done with the Marquis.” He rises in response, dusting snow off his legs. 

“Seems that all the time you spent calibrating these paid off,” she comments, arcing her head to observe the length of the fallen trebuchet. 

“Not really,” he says morosely, heading towards her, uncertain if any further words might start another argument.

She presses her lips together in a soft smile. “They threw the shot that allowed us to live to fight another day. I would call that a success.” He casts his eyes down, staring at the ground as he processes her statement. 

“Let’s take a look in the Chantry before we go,” she says, turning to leave. “I only grabbed the necessities from my office and I told Cassandra I’d see if any of her clothing was salvageable.” He nods silently in agreement and follows her through the ruins to the Chantry. 

The enormous Chantry doors are stuck. Cullen pulls at the handle with all his strength, but it won’t budge. “Maybe we should try another door?” she offers, eyeing his methods dubiously.

“I’ll go get one of the volunteers to help,” he says, looking around to flag someone down. 

“Well, let me try to help before you bother one of them,” she says, reaching for the handle. “Come on.”

It takes both of them pulling their hardest to pry the door open, and when it finally does, it cracks off the melted hinges. A split second longer could have led to tragedy, but his instincts kick in - he grabs her firmly by the waist, tearing her out of the door’s path as it collapses, sending snow and dirt up into the air on impact.

“Thank you,” she breathes, extricating herself from his grip gently.

“Are you alright?” he asks, bending his head down to better inspect her.

“I’m fine, she says, climbing in through the rubble. It’s an inappropriate time, but the feeling of her against him sends his mind reeling - he puts a cap back on that particular bottle for now. Amused by her quick recovery, he follows after her. 

Light pours in through the gaping hole where the roof collapsed, illuminating a hall in far worse shape than he’d expected - clearly no one has been in here since the incident. They are only a few steps in when Josephine stops in her tracks; he nearly walks straight into her. He follows her gaze to where Chancellor Roderick’s body lays, nothing more than a decaying hand sticking out from under the caved in roof. They stand for a moment, perhaps honoring Roderick, perhaps stunned they made it out of the crumbling carnage alive. With a careful hand barely resting on her shoulder, he guides her to their intended goal. As they traverse the detritus, he wonders what she’s thinking - she has not seen wreckage such as this. Not like he has.

The door to their room is gone, and there is hardly any ceiling left. Burnt beams and chunks of fallen roof block the entryway. “Maybe there’s another way around,” he offers. “Or we can just return to Skyhold. There’s probably not much to salvage.”

Josephine scans the rubble. “I can get through there,” she proclaims, pointing at a small crevice between the doorway and a burnt beam. “Hold this.” She hands him her bag before he can protest, pushing her sleeves up before shimmying through the crack. He loses sight of her once she’s through, but it only takes a minute for her to push the detritus out of the way to clear a path for him. “Come in,” she says, stepping to the side. He stands for a second, mildly shocked and even impressed, before climbing through. She is clearing a path to Cassandra’s drawers when he gets in. 

“Did you get everything you needed before?” she asks, nonchalantly tossing a brick to the side. She looks over at him and he can’t help but notice the charcoal dust that has left indelicate smudges on her face and fine white coat. She doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe she doesn’t care.

“Yes,” he lies. He feels his ears warm and quickly averts his eyes. In truth, the only item he had bothered to grab was the damned lyrium box. He sorely wishes he had let it burn. “Did you?” 

“Enough,” she sighs, lifting a shirt from Cassandra’s drawers. “ I came back for letters from my family. Nearly a decade’s worth.” She motions to him to hand her the bag. 

He passes it over and a glint of silver off in the corner Josephine slept in catches his eye. He trudges through the ashes and debris to investigate. 

“Your lute!” She stands to see, and a pained look crosses her face. The mangled instrument is half under the bed, and he crouches to carefully pull it out. The neck is snapped off, held to the body by only the strings, and the once light coloring of the lacquered spruce has been scorched, bubbles and smoke permanently burned into the carved wood. 

Sighing deeply, she walks over and kneels down to see it with her own eyes. Her fingers run gently down the neck of the instrument, her breath is shallow. Chancing a look at her, he realizes her eyes are glassy - she is trying desperately not to cry. 

Uncertain what to do, he stands awkwardly, trying to give her some space. If he had a handkerchief he would give it to her. The thought jogs his memory - he had pocketed hers to return this morning. Pulling it out, he bends back down and offers it to her. She breathes deeply and takes it gratefully, dabbing quickly at her eyes in embarrassment. As she catches a glimpse of the monogram on the cloth, her eyes turn stony and her mouth thins into a firm line.

“Where did you get this?” she grinds out, looking down at her own handkerchief. 

“You left it on the bench at dinner the other night,” he responds, his tone raising like a shield to weather her sudden oncoming storm. 

“Cullen, what on earth possessed you to take this? I did not leave it there for _you,”_ she says, as though it must be obvious. As she rises, she mutters, “I can’t believe you.”  
  
“What?” The injustice of what he thought to be a good deed being punished pushes him back on the balls of his feet, and he has the sick feeling like he’s about to go to battle. Again. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“I left it there _on purpose_ ,” she states without clarification. It’s like she’s trying to be evasive. He is already tired of whatever game she is trying to play, and flexes his hands a few times to calm himself. 

“You left a handkerchief on the bench on purpose?” He asks bluntly. 

“It is a standard courting token,” she exclaims, as if he obviously ought to know this. 

_Courting._ Courting with Blackwall. Her words are like a sword through his gut. “That’s ridiculous,” he scoffs, though he’s not sure if he’s more hurt by the courting or way she turned on him again so suddenly. 

“Ridiculous!” She throws her hands in the air and turns away from him, starting towards the door. 

“Why would anyone just leave a courting token just laying around for anyone to find? That’s hardly straightforward,” he scoffs.

“Oh, straightforward? You mean like you are? You haven’t been straightforward since you kissed me months ago!” She shuts her mouth quickly as though she regrets her words, but stares at him with a pointed fury. 

He blinks twice to clearing his mind. “ _Josephine,”_ he says, stretching her name out to wrap around her mixed messages. His hands palms are open, fingers wide in a plea of understanding. “ _You_ are the one who told me that we were a bad idea.” 

“It seems I was right.” With an icy glare, she retreats, despite having won. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so listen, we’re gonna do a little timeline twist hand wave and the Winter Palace is coming before Adamant Fortress. It’s just the way it’s gotta be. :) 
> 
> This was essentially a whole chapter of them arguing with each other and it was h a r d, so thank you for your patience as I cranked it out! On the plus side, I maaay have written a spicy sex scene for later in the story, so...that’s something to look forward to. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed them raging at each other!


	6. Preparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparation for the ball at the Winter Palace is in full force; Cullen receives a dressing down.

The bell has already tolled the two o’clock hour when Cullen decides he will not be attending dance class. This week of preparatory lessons for the Winter Palace has been a near unbearable slog - as if knowing which spoon to use for soup at a banquet were a reflection of his talents as a commander of an army. Perhaps to the Orlesians, Maker help them. 

He’s being impertinent, childish really, but the headache at the base of his skull feels like it’s a rope being pulled tighter and tighter, snaking its way down through his sinew and bone until his entire body feels like it will snap. It’s inevitable that any moment now someone will be there to grab him by the ear like a boy and lead him to the dance lessons, dragging his feet the whole way. Setting his papers down, he hoists himself out of his chair to stretch, pulling his elbow across his body and praying for relief. 

As if on cue, there’s a quick knock at the door before it creaks open. Cullen’s usual runner, Keegan, pokes his head in, cautiously announcing himself. “Commander, I’ve been sent to fetch you for Lady Montilyet’s lesson.”

Cullen switches to stretch his left arm. “Tell her I’m not going. I am busy.” It should be dismissal enough, and he turns his eyes back to his reports. Keegan says nothing, but stands in the doorway, swaying back and forth on the balls of his feet.  
  
The boy’s energy floats across the room like nervous clouds until Cullen can’t take it anymore. He looks up from his papers, not bothering to hide his exasperation.

“Sir, it’s just that…” the boy trails off, clasping his hands behind his back. 

“Keegan.”

“I-I don’t mean to be-” he stammers in response, voice meek and quiet. “Sir, I was told not to leave until you go and I really don’t want to get on Her Ladyship’s bad side.” 

Cullen sighs in agreement, it is a dreadful place to be. He dismisses the boy, pinching the bridge of his nose so tightly he sees stars. Upon opening them, he stands and makes his way towards the door. These etiquette lessons seem infinite, a week of afternoons spent bowing until his back hurt and memorizing attendees and practicing how to speak to nobility, and, and, and. How to eat, stand, sit, who to sweet talk and who to avoid at all costs, on and on. 

When he arrives, people have clustered into small groups to converse, and all eyes turn to him expectantly. Tables and benches have been pushed aside to clear room for a dance floor, and a seamstress is here to take measurements for their formal uniforms. In the corner by the fireplace, Vivienne stands for her measurements, complaining loud enough for the room to hear.

“My dear, must we wear _uniforms?_ The entire idea is rather tragic, you know, showing up at a grand ball at the Winter Palace in…” Her nose crinkles a bit as she looks down it at Josephine. “Pants.”  
  
“We are the Inquisition. We must show them our unity in every way possible. You of all people understand how court responds to symbols.” Josephine looks at her with a practiced smile. 

“ _You’re late_ ,” Cassandra carps dryly, looking up at him with arms crossed and a scowl befitting a darkspawn. So he’s not the only one who doesn’t want to be here.

“My apologies,” he mumbles, glancing back to Josephine whose irritation peeks through its gossamer curtain as she turns her back to Vivienne. Upon seeing him, she shakes her head as if to balance her mood and attempts to put on a slightly more affable face.

They speak at the same time. 

“Ambassador, I do not appreciate your summons-“ 

“Commander, thank you for finally joining us,” she says, flipping through her notes for something. She seems to not register his words, distracted by too many moving pieces. “If you would please remove your armor.”

“W-what? Why?” With the way the room begins snickering, his confusion must be written boldly on his face. 

Her patient eyes flick up to him, then back down to her notes. “Our seamstress needs to take your measurements for your uniform today,” she says, motioning to Vivienne and the woman in the corner. “And I have never worn armor, but I think it would be rather difficult to dance in, don’t you?” 

The seamstress beckons him over. With a resigned nod, he begins the journey over, removing his gloves and unbuckling his vambraces. As they pass, Vivienne leans towards him, speaking low, lurid amusement dripping from her voice like syrup. “Chin up, my dear. She loves a man in uniform.”

Her words send a shockwave of embarrassment down his spine, and he whips his head to look at her as she saunters away. She glances over with a knowing smile before launching into conversation with Dorian and Bull. The seamstress takes his vambraces and gloves from him, setting them on a nearby bench, and he removes the rest of his armor to join them. Being stripped down to his gambeson and trousers feels nearly like nudity in front of this crowd, all dressed in their regular clothing, leathers and linens more pliable and forgiving than steel. The seamstress taps his arms up into a T-shape and draws the measuring rope across his arm span. 

Josephine and Leliana stand in front of the fireplace about a meter from him, surveying the crowd. “I believe the commander is the last to be measured...” Josephine says, tapping her finger against her mouth. 

“Yes, he’s the last,” Leliana replies with a smirk. “Maybe one day he’ll learn he can only avoid your will for so long.” The seamstress turns him around and kneels to take measurements for his pants, pressing her rope onto his thigh. 

“ _Hush.”_ The sounds of rustling paper hitting cloth and Leliana’s chuckle almost makes him grin at their camaraderie, but Josephine’s flustered tone wafts through his ear and settles in his stomach like butterflies. Her voice grows very quiet, far too soft to make out the words. For a moment he tries to listen in, but eavesdropping on a conversation presumably about himself makes him nervous, like he might be better off not knowing. Leliana hums a laugh, Josephine clears her throat, and Cullen’s suspense ends nearly as soon as it began. The seamstress thanks him and turns to pack up her things. With a yearning glance to his armor laying on the bench, he joins the crowd at its edge.

“Let’s get started, shall we?” Josephine says with a clap, gesturing to everyone to gather around the fireplace. “Thank you all for being here today, I know this has been quite a lot of work to prepare for the ball, but proper preparation prevents poor performance, and I know most of you haven’t danced in quite a while.” She smiles, but there is a seriousness, a weight in her gaze as she gazes at the individuals who will represent the Inquisition. Appraising them as one might select a duelist to bet on. With deliberate severity she says, “The suspected assassination attempt against Queen Celene could turn the tide for or against us. We must protect Orlais from falling into Corypheus's hands. This may be the most important performance of your lifetime.”

The threat of her words is almost funny when he thinks of the lightheartedness of grown adults tip-toeing around each other in overwrought frocks, but as he looks around it seems no one else thinks so. They have the uneasy, anxious looks he is used to seeing on his fresh recruits, not professionals like his colleagues. He wonders if he’s discounting the importance of these dances. At the fireplace, Josephine closes her eyes a half-moment and takes a breath. Her jaw relaxes and when she opens her eyes she perks up, toe to tone.

“We have three dances to learn today, but we’ll begin with the waltz - it’s the most common dance we’ll encounter at the ball, and it’s a good one to have in one’s repertoire in any case. Dorian, if you please?” She gestures to the mage, who joins her in front of the fireplace to demonstrate. Naturally, Dorian makes a show of it all, moving with flourishes as they show the hold and describe the basic steps, Cullen pays close attention to their feet, moving gracefully side to side. If he’s here, he might as well try.

“Now, let’s pair up for the waltz first - the more experienced with the less so. Vivienne, I think you’d be perfect to show the Inquisitor how it’s done. Leliana and Blackwall, Cullen and Cassandra, and Dorian and Bull.” 

Cassandra grumbles and steps towards him. He offers a hand with a bit of a grimace, which she takes. Uncertain where to put his other hand, he settles it lightly on her waist. She rolls her eyes and scoffs loudly, placing his hand firmly on her shoulder blade. “It is a _waltz,_ Cullen,” she scolds, as if he is supposed to have any idea that hands go different places for different dances. She may be Nevarran nobility, but he’s from a farm in south Ferelden. He doesn’t apologize. 

Josephine surveys as they pair up, weaving between them and adjusting their holds, their foot placement. “Here we have Maryden to accompany us, but at the ball there will be a full symphony. It’s really quite remarkable,” she says nostalgically, motioning towards the fireplace. Cullen hadn’t noticed her before, but the bard stands quietly by, lute in hand. When she notices him looking she gives him a sympathetic smile. It makes him feel a little better, at least until she begins playing and the mortifying reality of having to move sets in. 

The first few steps go fine, though he feels Cassandra leading him impatiently to the music like he is a musk ox and she, the driver. Once they find their rhythm and his memory clings to the steps, he attempts to take the lead, but she will not yield. How very like her. The room practices the basic steps for what feels like a half hour, though it’s likely much closer to ten minutes. He chances a look up from his feet, trying to become comfortable not staring at the ground, though he’s not quite sure where else to look. 

The rest of the group seems to be doing alright, only minor squabbles seem to be breaking out over sore toes and sweaty palms. Bull is surprisingly light on his feet, and the Inquisitor does seem to be trying their level best, but Blackwall is stumbling all over Leliana, whose grace and agility seem amplified next to a man who looks like he eats tobacco for breakfast. Josephine interrupts them to help, resting a hand on Blackwall’s shoulder with a sympathetic smile. As he watches, Cassandra leads him into a turn he’s not expecting and his feet tangle, tripping them both. 

“Cullen, pay attention!” 

“Sorry,” he mutters as they return to form, eyes wandering over her shoulder to watch Josephine gather Leliana into her arms, taking the leading role. 

“Watch my feet. Like this,” he hears her say, and she steps forward onto the ball of her foot, graceful and certain. “Heel toe, toe, toe heel,” she says as they repeat the move, then spins Leliana around. At this point it seems no longer for demonstrative purposes as they giggle and twirl. They seem natural, like they’ve done this many times, like it’s fun for them. He so rarely sees this side of them, carefree and joyous. Josephine’s smile is big and radiant, her peals of laughter intoxicating. 

“OW!” Cassandra yells, jumping loose from his grip. “Ugh, _CULLEN!”_

Maryden stops playing and it occurs to him that his name has not been uttered so gutturally, with such absolute disgust and rage since he had caught his elder sister Mia behind the barn kissing a stable boy. Torn somewhere between fear and hilarity, he apologizes. “I’m so sorry,” he says, taking a step towards her. She holds up a hand to stop him, a darker scowl than usual on her face. A few people laugh like mockingbirds off to the side, but he doesn’t acknowledge them.

“Oh no, Cassandra, are you okay?” Josephine checks, rushing over. Cassandra shoots her a dirty look, already walking towards the bench. “Perhaps we should trade off…take a rest. Cullen, with me.” Josephine turns to him, widening her eyes playfully in response to Cassandra’s dramatics. 

“Are you ready?” She asks everyone. 

“READY!” roars Iron Bull, who seems to be enjoying this lesson more than anyone else.

Cullen shrugs a nod and she signals to Maryden to begin again. She curtsies low and he bows somewhat carefully, extending a gloveless hand to her. Last time they were hand in hand, he had been fearless, pulling her into the darkened Chantry with a hunger he could finally name. Not so today, in front of friends and colleagues, with his history of accidentally throwing verbal daggers straight into her back. She places her hand into his, the delicate softness of someone who has never known hard labor, and he realizes, gloves discarded on the bench, that this is the first time their hands have been skin to skin. He’s suddenly aware of the rough calluses on his own as she takes a quiet, shaky breath. She brings her other hand to his bicep and he cradles her shoulder blade, as Cassandra had instructed. 

The music begins. 

As they take the first step, her perfume wafts around him, floral and heady - roses probably, he thinks. It smells expensive. They don’t talk, but she quietly counts the steps for him, “one, two, three, one, two, three.” This dance does not seem nearly the struggle it was with Cassandra, no stumbling or confusion, no fight for dominance. It feels natural, fluid and reactive. He realizes she is actually letting him lead, though he doesn’t quite know where.

“Try to spin me,” she says. He does it with ease. “Well done.”

The rest of the group seem to be growing more comfortable too, though the Inquisitor is definitely struggling. Josephine keeps glancing over to them, brow furrowed in concern and mouth quirking at the corner like he knows she does when she’s displeased. Another wordless round about the room passes and she says kindly, “It’s usually good to make conversation as you dance.” 

“What about?” he asks.

“Considering the goal of this ball is to woo Orlais into support, you could offer a story of the Inquisitor’s accomplishments or our military achievements.”

“Hm,” he considers aloud. 

“Securing the help of the mages has been quite a boon,” she suggests. “You can tell them about that.” 

He looks down at her with a smirk. “Shall I tell them of the Inquisitor’s natural ability to find themselves in everyone’s problems, petty or otherwise?”

“Perhaps some more thought on that topic,” she suggests with a hint of snark. They fall into a comfortable quiet, stepping round in time to the music. 

“You really are quite a natural at this, you know?” she says, craning her neck to look at him. 

“At dancing?” he snorts. 

“I mean it,” she says, and there’s a sparkle of honesty in her eyes when he glances down at her. 

“The footwork of swordplay and the footwork of dancing are not too dissimilar. It is an easy jump to make,” he says, shrugging off the compliment. 

Excitement jumps into her voice and he swears if her hands were free she would clap. “Oh, you know, you could tell them about what the Inquisition is doing to support Haven!” 

”I fear they may not believe me when I tell them of Corypheus and his Archdemon bodyguard,” he says, contempt slipping through his words. 

“They’ve heard the stories already, but from the commander of the army that fought them?" She makes a sound that he takes to mean that it will work. "They will be titillated. You can tell them of our return, share how we are supporting the monument and rebuilding efforts. As gruesome as it is, they love a horror story at court and goodness knows Haven was in a state last time we were there.” 

He is tumbling down this path again, one that only leads to ruin and shame, unable to slow his tongue. “So am I to tell them of burnt bodies strewn about a crushed in Chantry? Of your letters to families and 67 funerals?” 

“Yes,” she replies, stiffening under his palm. “They are so far removed from the realities of war… they must be made to understand.” 

“As you say, the deaths of civilians _are_ politics.” As the words leave his lips, he closes his eyes, agonizingly aware of the misery he has inflicted upon them both. 

When she speaks, her voice is low, her tone final. “I will not argue this with you again. You have already insulted me on such a level that you cannot possibly have more to say on the matter.” She breaks away from his hold, but he cannot let her hand go, cannot let her walk away without trying to fix this. 

“Wait,” he chokes out, shaking his head with regret, remorse, embarrassment - all of it. He searches her face, and his heart sinks deeper than he thought it could fall. He expected righteous fury, but is met instead with stormy eyes welling with tears. His chest tightens, as does his grip on her hand. “Josie, I, I’m-”

“I am not saying that they are correct,” she appeals, nearly whispering. “I am saying that this is how we win their support.”

“I know, I-” He cannot find the right words to fix this twice-made error. As he searches, the silence of the room becomes deafening. Everyone gawks - at him, at her, at their hands intertwined. She seems to notice, too, because she slips her hand from his grasp, holding it to her chest like he's burnt her. The moment feels never-ending. 

Josephine swallows and turns to Maryden. “Please continue.” Maryden gives a kind nod and begins a new tune. No one dances. 

Anger flares in her eyes and her words come out nearly a hiss. “ _I said, continue!”_ Immediately, everyone steps into hold and begins to move, albeit while trying to catch glances of the utter scene that has laid out before them. 

“Josephine,” Cullen starts, but she holds up a hand to still him.  
  
“No,” she says, skirting around him and disappearing up the tavern stairs, leaving him standing alone as his colleagues flit and flounce around him. Somehow, this is exactly how he expects he might feel at court. 

***

The sun is setting when Cullen finds himself caught in a battle of wits - chess with Dorian. 

Across the courtyard, the Inquisitor enters through the main hall and walks towards the herb garden. As they greet people in the courtyard, they catch Cullen’s eye and a scowl crosses their face like they’ve just remembered a particularly annoying chore they have to complete. He braces himself for a verbal lashing. 

“Gentlemen, how is your evening,” they ask with an air of intentionally cultivated pleasantry. Josephine’s lessons seem to be working on someone. Before either can respond, they continue. “Cullen, may I ask you...what on earth is going on with you and Josephine?”  
  
Dorian laughs, picking up a pawn. “So glad someone else sees the remarkably obvious.” He takes the lead with a smirk, knocking out Cullen’s bishop.

“Nothing is going on, we’re colleagues,” he says, frowning as Dorian takes his bishop. 

“Yes, and I’m the King of Ferelden,” Dorian smirks. “You should really move that rook.”

His brow knits together as he stares at the board. He has confided in no one about this, but his confusion and heartache beg for release, to be brought into the light of day.

“Maybe - no. I don’t know. Not nothing,” he sighs, resigned to the truth. 

“Look, Cullen,” the Inquisitor says, crossing their arms. “I really don’t care what you and Josephine do in your free time. In fact, I’d even encourage blowing off a little steam these days.” Their tone is joking, but their words are serious. Dorian chuckles fondly and Cullen feels his cheeks and ears burn bright. 

“All I’m saying is that I need you to figure it out one way or the other because I really cannot have my advisors fighting each other tooth and nail like this. Making a scene in front of our team is one thing, but you put this in front of the rest of the Inquisition? The Orlesian court? There is too much on the line.” The intensity of the Inquisitor’s gaze makes him feel like a Chantry Mother is scolding him for not saying his prayers before breakfast. “Get it sorted.” 

“I will,” he promises. The Inquisitor’s eyes search his face for a moment, eventually satisfied with his words. They nod decisively and head off to tend to their overgrown garden. 

“Make a move,” Dorian says, leaning back in his chair. 

“I don’t know how,” Cullen says. “We’ve got this...I seem to find a way to set her off every time I speak to her.”

“I meant move your pieces,” Dorian says dryly.

“Oh,” Cullen responds, moving a pawn up.  
  
A smarmy laugh wiggles out of the mage. “No, I didn’t.” Cullen shoots him a dirty look. 

“Well...how do you feel?” There’s uncharacteristic softness to Dorian’s voice, as he speaks, though it’s quickly masked by cynicism. “Ugh, listen to me, already invested.” He leans forward and snatches up the rook he’d pointed out.

Cullen crosses his arms, watching the people in the courtyard as they move about their evenings. “I’ve already ruined everything.” 

“How do you mean?”

Sheepishly, Cullen glances over at Dorian. 

“Commander, I’m positively shocked,” Dorian gasps, feigning scandal. “Our dear Lady Montilyet, sure, but you? I simply can’t imagine you getting caught up in the _drama_ and _romance_ of war.”  
  
“Shut up,” Cullen grumbles. “Nothing happened. Kind of.”  
  
“Why?” 

“Too much at stake.” He stops himself, considering whether he should share this. “We both wanted more than...was possible.”

Dorian strokes his perfectly coiffed mustache, ruminating with care. “Certainly, there is a lot at stake, but it seems to me that not being together may actually be worse for both you and the Inquisition.” His tone softens. “Do you still feel that way?” 

“Yes.” He really has no other words. 

Dorian’s face gathers sympathetically. “Then...maybe you should tell her that.” 

“I’ve made a mess of this,” Cullen says with a heavy sigh, suddenly aware of a headache creeping in at his temples. His head falls into his hands. 

“Only so far,” Dorian says, eyeing the board. 

“No, she’s moved on - exchanging gifts with Blackwall these days. He gave her flowers, she gave him a handkerchief. Of all things,” he laughs, though it feels hollow. 

“Oh, a _handkerchief_ , I see, well, you know that means they’re practically engaged,” Dorian drawls. “Don’t be daft, a scrap of fabric means next to nothing.” 

He sighs, rubbing at his eyes. “I’ve said awful things to her.”

“And did you _apologize_?” Dorian says the word apologize slowly, as if spelling it out to someone who has never heard of the concept.

“I-I haven’t really had the opportunity,” he stammers, knowing it is not good enough an answer.

Dorian’s eyebrows shoot up in exasperation, and he scoffs loudly. “Oh dear. You see each other every single day and you say you’ve had no opportunity? _Rubbish_. You make your own opportunity.” He moves a pawn, leaving his queen wide open - a taunt. With a raised eyebrow and a smirk, he looks Cullen square in the eye. “Don’t be a coward.”

Cullen gazes at the opening, feels his heart settle into determination. He takes the opportunity, and the queen. 

“Checkmate,” he says.

Dorian grins. 

***

Back in his office, Cullen paces back and forth behind his desk, wearing a path to the words he needs to find with each roundabout the room. A letter will be best, he has decided, since his current track record with actual verbal communication has been lacking as of late. The evening has turned to night, candles burn low, and crumbled bits of paper scatter across his desk - previous attempts at this letter derisively discarded. The sheet of paper he has begun has only one word, but after trying to figure out how to address her for so long, he is satisfied.

> _Josephine -_

There is much further to go in this apology. 

He forces himself down into the chair and smooths open a few of the attempts, picking and choosing bits from each that best get his meaning across. In retrospect, he does not remember ever being quite such a poor communicator, but when it comes to this woman he really does know how to put his boot in his mouth. Shaking his head, he puts quill to paper. 

> _I have made many egregious errors, and for them I must sincerely apologize._
> 
> _On our visit to Haven, we fought. I accused you of a wretched thing, an unfair and unkind implication that you care more for the optics of our situation than the people we are meant to be fighting for. I know this not to be the case, for I have seen you work tirelessly to protect and honor them. I said this out of anger at a world that is imbalanced, where those who take a stand against forces that could end our world are mere statistics when there are people who remain untouched by such horrors in their ivory towers._
> 
> _This afternoon, when you suggested telling the Orlesians of Haven, I misbehaved, for the same reasons I have before. Turning the deaths of our friends and colleagues into entertainment for the aristocracy makes my blood burn, but if it is what it will take to secure their military support and win this war, I will do it._
> 
> _Through my poor behavior, you have continued to be kind to me, even when I could not find it within myself to extend the same courtesy. You are a true friend and a stalwart advisor. You are the compass that guides our entire operation through dark waters, and I trust no one as I do you. I believe in your plans for the Winter Palace, and you will receive no more opposition from me._
> 
> _I am deeply sorry. Please, forgive me the pain I have caused._

He rereads the letter a few times, making sure it’s entirely legible through his rather angular handwriting, then lifts his quill to sign it. How to end it...sincerely? Thank you? Best wishes? Yours? He signs it simply: 

> _Cullen_

When the ink is dry he folds it neatly into an envelope, seals it with wax, and writes a _J_ on it. He considers for a moment sending Keegan to deliver it, but knows that apologies are best delivered in person, even if they come on paper. He moves quickly through the drafty keep to her office, lingering for a moment outside her door to gather his courage before knocking. 

Her voice is weary when she calls him in and she looks tired, like she’s stretched her day far beyond her capacity. Her braids are coming loose, the bow at her neck is untied, and her hand is stained with ink up to the wrist.

“Is...this a bad time?” he asks, inching towards her desk. The letter hangs at his side, feeling far heavier than the piece of paper that it is. 

“No, now is fine.” She puts her quill in its inkwell, and folds her hands in her lap, regarding him patiently. “I’m finishing a letter to our host in Orlais. We’re staying at a chateau on the coast near Halamshiral and I want to make sure they have everything we will require. Do you have any special requests?” 

“No. Ah, thank you. For arranging it,” he says, hands atop the chair he shields himself behind. 

She nods graciously, then says, “How may I help you, Commander?” She looks expectantly at him, still with far more pleasantry than he would afford himself were he in her shoes. He swallows uncomfortably, knowing she can sense his nervousness. 

“I, well,” he clears his throat. He speaks slowly, deliberately, so as not to say the wrong thing. “It is not hard for me to apologize. I...I know when I am wrong. It’s just that, well, I’ve been so wrong, in so many ways...I haven’t quite known where to start. And I keep making it worse.”  
  
At that, her lips quirk up into a little smile. His heart pounds - he stands a chance of this working. 

“I...have struggled to be clear with you, so I, well, I wrote it all down.” He holds the envelope out to her. “I hope you will read it.” 

“I will.” She takes it from him, holding it almost tenderly with both hands. 

“Okay,” he says, shuffling backward slowly. “Thank you.” When he reaches the door, he looks back at her, at her sleepy eyes and disheveled hair, so sweet and beautiful in the golden glow of the fireplace. 

“I wish you a most restful night, my lady.” He bows his head with reverence, with respect. 

“Good night,” he hears her whisper behind him. He closes the door, leaving her to his carefully written words. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! <3 Next, the trip to Halamshiral.


	7. Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition makes their way to Orlais and prepares for the Winter Palace

_The boy is exhausted._

Eyes shut tight, hands clasped in prayer; a flimsy iridescent barrier of protection against the wicked whispers snaking through his mind. Piles of gore and viscera are strewn across the icy stone floor, a dark contrast to the auburn-haired girl who circles him with a hunger in this strange room with no windows and no doors. The girl’s eyes bore into his soul, and piece by wicked piece she discards her clothes until she stands before him, nude and wanting. A trick of the mind, of the demons slithering about. Or perhaps, a welcomed pit of despair to fall into. Consumed by fear and lust and panic, he mumbles a prayer to the Maker, to Andraste, to anyone who will listen. Her fingers graze the barriers softly, softly, just barely. The energy spurting from them pulls cold shivers to the surface of his skin, makes the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end.

A tawny hand pierces the barrier, delicate and ink stained. He should be scared by the way she so easily slipped beyond his wards, but she smells of flowers and parchment and her hand is gentle and smooth. It fits so well in his own that he pushes the thought aside as he lifts it reverently to his lips. Her other hand floats to his temple, caresses down his face, offers comfort and devotion with simply the brush of a thumb. She whispers something sweet to him, but it sounds of rusted swords scraping through wet gravel. 

Then, everything is sharp - the air, the stone against his knees, the way her nails dig into his wrist. His eyes snap open and dart around frantically; he can hardly keep his breath. The taste of iron floods his mouth, and blood gushes onto the stone floor, onto her heavy boot clad feet. Crystalline shards of crimson protrude from her pale hand like putrid scabs and everywhere she touches him feels like thousands of daggers puncturing his flesh from inside out. His body reacts before his mind does, flinging himself back and away from this demon in terror. 

In an instant, he is in a hall of mirrors. It’s familiar, as if he’s walked it hundreds of times, and the door at the end screams to him, beckoning for his presence. His feet propel him towards the door, but his body feels strange, the weight of it wrong, imbalanced. Stumbling forward, he hears a loud crunch of glass under his foot. To his right, one of the mirrors is shattered, revealing friendly blue skies and a sickening drop into the frozen valley below. Jagged fragments of mirror reflect his own face as he’s never seen it before - gaunt and sallow, sliced and bloodied at the mouth, with faraway eyes in a monstrous shade of red. 

What must the rest of him look like? 

He steps past the broken mirror, afraid to see, but knowing he must. The full reflection is far worse than he could ever imagine. Red crystals jut through the inlaid sword on his chestplate, out his cheeks and fingers, his shoulders, claiming his body like an infestation. At the sight of his mangled body, his stomach drops, and he retches what little he can onto the floor of broken mirror. 

_Strike the killing blow._

_Strike the killing blow._

_“They picked me as the templar to strike the killing blow if you became an abomination.”_

_Strike the killing blow._

The wind whistles through the broken mirror. The breeze hits him but he cannot feel it through the crystal rapidly enveloping his body, overtaking him entirely second by agonizing second. Beyond, a valley of relief. Respite.

It’s all too much to bear. There is no other choice, no life left to live as this deformed monstrosity. He steps through the broken mirror; he plunges into oblivion.

***

The shock of the fall pulls Cullen from his fitful slumber with a loud gasp. He blinks against the dim light and disorientation as he tries to find his bearings in the rumbling carriage. A razor-sharp tension runs from shoulder to fingertips - his fists are balled so tightly his knuckles hurt, as if one squeeze more would pop every finger out of their joints.

“Commander?” A gentle lilt rouses him from the fog, and he turns his head up to meet it. Across from him sit Leliana and Josephine, both with startled looks of concern on their faces. 

“Are you alright, Cullen?” Leliana’s voice is soft, like how she would speak to a small child who is afraid of the dark. It should be patronizing, but it is the sort of small kindness he has come to expect from the former Chantry Sister.

Cullen runs a hand down his face, massaging the bridge of his nose for a moment as he takes a deep breath.  
  
“Just...just a dream,” he murmurs, looking out the window to avoid their pity, to distract himself from the shame. Drizzles of early morning rain patter lightly against the glass, streaking the pastoral view beyond with tiny flowing rivers that Cullen focuses his eyes and mind on. It’s beautiful this far out in the countryside, like a painting he’d particularly admired in Knight-Commander Greagoir’s office. Orlais is bathed in ghostly grey, spindly leafless trees poking out from the billowing fog as they pass rundown farms and overgrown meadows. 

The women quietly resume their conversation, consulting the papers and maps spread across their laps, but not a word registers for him. He’s still falling. Still feels the red lyrium shards puncturing through the skin on the backs of his hands. Leaning his forehead against the velvety wall, he fishes around in his pocket until he finds it, the coin his brother Branson gave him as a boy. For luck, the boy had said, though over the years it had become something else. Something grounding. He smooths his thumb over the face of Andraste once, twice, again. A meditation. 

“How close are we?” He asks, interrupting the women’s susurration. Three days snugly packed in a carriage has left his body and mind idle, and has allowed these gruesome memories to creep out of their box. He, like everyone else, he’s sure, is ready to be free. 

“Only a few hours, I think,” Josephine answers, taking the papers from Leliana and carefully filing them away in her bag. With a satisfied smile she adds, “Right on time.” 

“It will be so nice to stay at Chateau d’Eau Vivre,” Leliana sighs, retrieving a long circle of string from her bag. “Theirs baths are like nothing you’ve ever seen. They call them Living Waters - they’re supposed to be unbelievably rejuvenating. A little luxury never hurt anyone.” 

“Indeed,” Josephine smiles. “I am looking forward to a real bed after that lumpy bed of hay at the inn last night.” Even through his fog, Cullen can’t help but grin in agreement - the beds had nearly been worse than sleeping on the ground.

Threading the string around her fingers, Leliana offers the game towards Josephine. When she speaks, there is an uncharacteristic whine to her voice, though it is masked by humor. “Vivienne did have a point, you know. A ball with no gown and no sparkly shoes does feel like such a waste.”

Josephine hums a soft laugh, carefully pinching the Xs of the string. “I would be lying if I said I do not know exactly what I would wear for the occasion.” She casts an impish grin up at Leliana as she transfers the string to her own fingers, then turns and offers it to him. He declines with a soft wave of his hand, content to watch. Something about seeing his indomitable colleagues pass the time with a simple childhood game charms him, helps him leave the dreadful nightmare behind. 

“Ah, if this were back in our court days, I would wear something green,” Leliana daydreams as she takes the string onto her fingers. He notices Josephine’s smile fall, just slightly, before she catches herself and smiles again, this time more brightly. “Celery. No, moss. With gold embroidery of ivy and lace from Ghislain for the sleeves.” 

“And for your shoes, my lady?” Josephine inquires politely as she examines where to grab the string. 

Leliana gives a playful scoff. “No, that’s not the spot.” Josephine adjusts her grip with an irritated purse of her lips. “Gold slippers, naturally, with ruby buckles.”

“Naturally.” 

“And you, Josie? I see you in blue.”

“For this ball? Blue is the queen’s signature color and it would be rude beyond measure to wear something akin to her. No, plum.” Josephine insists.

“Ah, you wear purple like it was made for you,” Leliana says dreamily. “Yes, with a corset and an open neckline to show off your lovely décolleté.” Her eyes flash mischievously and her tone turns teasing. She reaches out and runs a finger down the golden puffs of Josephine’s sleeve. “You are always so covered up, Josie, no one would ever know how cute you are beneath all those ruffles.” 

Josephine’s cheeks turn bright pink and she tosses the string at her friend in embarrassment. Leliana dissolves into laughter and Cullen chuckles quietly though, he must admit, he is stirred by the idea. The vision of Josephine on an empty dance floor floods his mind, clad in a shimmering swath of plum with a full skirt and bare shoulders, the picture of grace as she glides towards him with parted lips and bedroom eyes. He focuses on the grooves of his lucky coin and averts his gaze to the Orlesian countryside, banishing the thought. 

***

If she were wise, Josephine would use these final hours of travel to rest. The closer they come to Halamshiral, the more her nerves seem to seep up and out of her pores. At Skyhold, she could busy herself with a million important things, but in the confines of the carriage she is limited to the thirty letters she’s already read and replied to, the novel she has nearly finished, and observing her travel mates. 

Opposite her, Cullen sleeps, as he has for most of the trip. In the close proximity of the carriage, with not much else to look at, she finds herself watching him again. He had slept the entire first day’s ride, which she attributed to exhaustion and the blessed opportunity to finally rest without interruption from the Inquisitor or his soldiers or anyone else who may need his attention. But when he refused nourishment for most of the second day, she grew concerned, and felt her eyes drift from him less and less as the carriage rolled on. Again, he seems to struggle against sleep, the planes of his face stretched tight, pallor unchanged.

In Orlesian, Josephine speaks quietly so as not to wake him. “He still looks unwell.” 

Leliana glances up from her novel, regarding him, then back. 

“I’ll have the staff bring him some tea and tonic when we arrive,” she resolves, making a mental note to speak with the butler upon arrival. 

“Kind of you.” Leliana turns her page, eyes lingering on it as she speaks. 

They sit quietly with the subdued symphony of the wheels and the horses and the rain, Leliana looking at her book and Josephine looking at Cullen. 

“So,” Leliana slyly begins. “You still have not told me what was in his letter.”

“Leliana, please-“ Josephine whispers, motioning with her eyes towards the sleeping man.

“I will find out one way or another, so you may as well tell me now.” 

With an irritated huff, Josephine gives in. “If you must know, it was an apology. An...explanation for why he feels we’ve been at odds for, well...for some time now.” 

“Well, I could tell you that,” Leliana proffers.  
  
“Please, enlighten me.” 

Leliana snaps her book shut and turns carefully in the tight carriage to look at her. “How much do you know of Cullen’s past?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Of his life before the Inquisition.” Leliana hardly stops speaking long enough for Josephine to consider the question. “Cullen is a complicated man. I met him when I traveled with the Hero of Ferelden. He was young, no more than twenty, when we found him in the Circle Tower of Kinloch Hold. Do you know what happened there?”

“I have heard the basic tale.” Over a decade ago, word of the fallen Circle had been gossip circulated within the Orlesian court, attributed as simply another thing Ferelden could not do right when it came to managing their mages. 

The spymaster leans in close, voice low and secretive. “He had been tortured for weeks by blood mages. Hardly any food or water. Watched his friends die. When we found him he thought we were demons. It was...horrible.” Leliana sits back in her seat, content to let Josephine process for a moment. 

Stealing another glance at him, Josephine shakes her head in disbelief, not at the story, but in amazement at his survival through such an ordeal. “I...I can’t imagine.” And truly, she cannot. 

“He has been trained to look at the world in black and white, has experienced things that have enforced his views until they were so deeply contradicted he had no choice but to change.” Leliana smooths her tunic down and demurely clasps her hands in her lap. “He is not closed minded, but he is...rigid. To him, the world is a scale, a place that can be balanced with a good deed strong enough to outweigh the wrongs.” 

The metaphor does seem apt, she thinks, though she is curious how she may compare to it. “And me?”

“You see the world as a pendulum, fluid and ever-changing. Eventually it finds equilibrium, but inevitably something will cause movement again. Be that the Maker’s divine will or a greedy nobleman’s ambition,” she smirks. 

“It is usually the nobleman,” Josephine says sourly. “I- well, I do appreciate his apology. It’s a start.”

“To what?” 

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and tightly crosses her arms against her chest. “I don’t know. I care for him. Yet I’m so...I’m so _angry_ at him.”

Leliana gives her a pitying smile. 

“It is not enough that he must work on a project that I’m perfectly capable of doing on my own, he must question my methods. It is not enough that he disagrees with my methods, he questions my _values_. It is not enough that we cannot…” she trails off, unable to find the right words. “It is that he interferes with me trying to move on, as pointless as that flirtation with Blackwall was. Wherever he is.”

She puts a hand up to cradle her cheek and stares down at their tangle of dirty boots on the ground. “This is all just so...embarrassing. Do you believe people think differently of me these days?”

“No, Josie, don’t be ridiculous,” Leliana consoles, taking her by the hand. “Everyone in the Inquisition recognizes your contributions, even if it has taken a hard-headed Ferelden longer to understand them.”

***

Perched atop a cliffside of the tumultuous Waking Sea, Château d’Eau Vivre is even grander than Josephine had let on. Its opulence is truly a bit painful to look at, Cullen thinks, when one considers how much coin a place like this must cost to build. The mere width of the castle eclipses Skyhold by half at the least, with gardens stretching to forest on each side of the estate, full of late autumn blossoms. 

His room is truly a thing of fiction, with wall-to-wall windows overlooking the manicured courtyard at the center of the château, a four poster bed that could hold an entire family back in Honnleath, and a sitting area fit for a king. Nearly everything is gilded, from the bookends to the enormous pile of decorative throw pillows atop the bed. In front of the roaring fireplace, a tray is set on the table, loaded with breads and cheese, pâte, slices of apples, and a variety of jams. As beautiful a spread as it is, nothing appeals to the sour lyrium-sick stomach he has been nursing for days. 

A steaming pot of herbal tea and a tiny, delicate glass cup of something liquid and ochre colored accompany them. He picks up the cup and sniffs it - a nutty odor wafts up and sticks in the back of his throat. Out of curiosity more than anything else, he takes a sip and finds it surprisingly tasty, like sweet pecans and chicory. He tips the rest down and pours himself a cup of tea, hoping the draught doesn’t affect his constitution too poorly before the ball.

As it cools, he unpacks, smoothing his uniform out on the bed. They have only a few hours to prepare before it is time to depart for the Winter Palace, and he desperately needs to wash the carriage ride and today’s lingering lyrium effects off his body if he wants to make it through what is sure to be an eventful evening. 

***

As soon as the servant who shows her to her room departs, Josephine flings open a window overlooking the Waking Sea, leaning out to breathe in the cold, salty air. No matter the difference in appearance to the aquamarine Rialto Bay, the scent of the sea will always remind her of home, of people she misses and people who love her. It’s soothing against her growing anxiety as the ball draws nearer and nearer. 

With only a few hours until they must travel to the Winter Palace, there’s no use trying to cram more information into the Inquisitor’s head or to overwhelm them with more dance practice. No, this time will be much better spent ensuring she is in the right mindset to be at court, to support the Inquisition through this crucial mission. It is the perfect time to enjoy the namesake of the château.

***

As it is, the Living Waters are a bit of a pain to get to. Cullen must trek down numerous stone staircases, seemingly carved into the layers of earth. They are dimly lit by braziers hung on the damp stone walls, shining a greenish fire that he assumes is magic, maybe so they never need to be tended and the corridor to these waters is always lit. As he descends, the air shifts, humidity rising up to meet him like a wave. He breathes in the warmth, feeling his whole body relax as the mineral rich air travels through his lungs. At the bottom of the stairs waits a rounded arch, covered by a heavy ivory curtain. He pushes it aside and ducks in. 

The bathhouse is a natural marvel, a cavern settled into the cliffside below the château, open to a glorious view of dramatic cloudy skies and the churning Waking Sea. Lit with the same seafoam glow as the corridor, the spa is sparsely decorated, which seems to him like an affront to Orlesian sensibilities. There are comfortable chairs for lounging and tables for massage scattered about the room, but perhaps the owners have allowed the beauty of nature to speak for itself for once. The walls are wet and shiny, bouncing dappled light about the cavern, and small pools of turquoise join to spill into a wide pool. Steam fills the cave, though the wind outside cuts through the humidity with a bracing chill, and he quickly disrobes, climbing down the stairs and plunging loudly waist-deep into the silky water.

“Commander!”

Through the steam a startled Josephine ducks deep into the water, nearly grazing her lips. “I didn’t think anyone would be down so early!” 

Her eyes linger on him unblinking, as if she cannot look away, until she abruptly diverts her focus to the water directly in front of her. 

“I-I’m so sorry, I -,” he says, so flustered he can hardly form a sentence, uncertain where to settle his eyes. “Sweet Maker, this is inappropriate, I’ll leave.” 

“No...no, there is plenty of room,” she says, adjusting her seating as she gestures across to the other side of the wide pool. 

“I- well, I-I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable,” he stutters.

“I’m not.” She looks him in the eye as she says it. Her words are firm, so he takes her at them, wading gingerly through the cloudy water to settle onto the bench opposite her. The water laps at his chest, warm and comforting against the chilling sea breeze, and he sinks down in the seat to submerge up to his neck. 

“The water is...nice.” He’s uncertain whether he should make conversation or not, but decides it would be altogether far more uncomfortable if he did not. He attempts a joke, though it comes out dry and flat. “Is it common in Orlais for colleagues to bathe together?”

She closes her eyes with a knowing smile, tipping her head back to rest against the rocks. “In Orlais it is common for colleagues to do much more than bathe together, Commander.” 

She says it so smoothly it takes him a moment to process her response, but he chokes out a dark laugh of shock. If he didn’t know better, he would think she had experience with such ventures. Though, considering her ease at his presence...he changes the subject.

“Did you have a tray of food in your room? What was that...brown stuff?”

“It is an Orlesian remedy that is good for many ailments. It cures headaches and sour stomachs, and gives one energy. Among other things,” she says. Her hair is loose, and it floats around her shoulders in inky brushstrokes against the sediment thick water. “I had it sent for you. Perhaps it will help you feel better?”

His brow quirks as he searches her serene face. “Why do you say that?”

She opens her eyes, just barely, looks at him in that pointed way that pulls the breath from his chest. “It is clear to me that you have been unwell, Commander.” 

“Ah,” he mutters, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. Her observational skills and thoughtfulness never cease to take him off guard, as generous as they may be. “Let’s hope it does me some good then.” 

The wind blows hollow echoes at the front of the cave, filling the surprisingly comfortable silence they fall into. Josephine nibbles lightly on her bottom lip as she gazes at the top of the cave, at the dripping stalactite formations illuminated by the braziers. He can’t help but glide his eyes down the line of her jaw down to the beads of sweat and water gathering on her clavicles, the curve of her breasts into the water, mind painting in the empty spaces of the blank canvas with his memory. Her brow furrows, and she pushes a fallen strand of hair back off her forehead with a huff. 

“You seem…” He trails off, trying to find the word. 

“I am very nervous,” she declares, dropping her chin to look at him. If she catches him staring, she doesn’t let on, and a funny thought forms. He wouldn’t mind if she _had_ noticed. 

“Why?” Cullen prompts, offering her the opportunity to think aloud, as she tends to do.

“There is so much riding on tonight, yet so much left to chance.” A moment passes before she asks, “Who do you think the Inquisition should put our support behind?” 

He shrugs, considering it. “Orlais needs someone capable of responding to the crisis at hand. A military-minded leader like Gaspard seems like the best option.” 

“Mm, I can see why you would think that,” Josephine nods as though she’s somewhat disappointed. 

“You disagree?” 

“Yes. Gaspard has run military campaigns, but never a kingdom. His transition would be…” She casts a judgmental look his way. “Let us say, ‘chaotic.’”

“He is well-loved by the army who would follow him. We may lose the Chevaliers support if we back Celene or Briala,” he warns. 

Her eyes light up as if he has told the funniest joke in the world and she laughs through her words. “Briala? No, that is not a feasible solution by _any_ stretch of the imagination. But Celene has held the throne successfully for years. I see no profit in ousting her in such a delicate moment. The army will come around once they recognize the real threat, and if they do not follow her, there will be _severe_ repercussions. We retain the army either way, and the loss of a few Chevaliers outweighs the benefit of a stable Orlais.” 

It is a reasonable point of view, he concedes, though the loss of the Chevaliers would be a significant one. Before he can respond, she continues. 

“I am always in awe of The Inquisitor. They have risen to the demands of their role so well, but...” she says quietly, looking up at him. “Well...they are more fit for a battlefield than a dance floor.”

Cullen chuckles, rubbing his neck. “You could say the same of most of us. Templars never attended balls.” 

“The Inquisitor has made some wise choices of who to bring tonight, though I do...question others.” A coy look passes over her face. 

“Given their backgrounds, Vivienne and Dorian are excellent picks for this mission, though...” he says, moving to massage his shoulder to hide the laughter that threatens to escape. 

“Bull, yes, I _know_ ,” she groans with reticence. As their eyes catch, their professional veneers crack, both falling into a round of mirthful snickers at the absurdity of the Qunari mercenary subjected to court. The muscles in his abdomen expand and contract in laughter, a feeling so rare lately, it’s like rain on a dry summer’s day. 

“What can I say,” Josephine smiles, calming herself. “The Inquisitor wanted muscle, and with Blackwall’s disappearance…” She trails off in thought, and he wonders if she is thinking of the warden, missing him. He clenches his jaw against the feeling as the moment passes, and she turns toward him with a new severity. 

“Commander, I know that you _know_ , but I fear you do not _understand._ How we speak to the court is a matter of life and death.” The gravity in her stills him, has him hanging on her every word. “Our actions tonight have consequences. It is no simple matter of etiquette and protocol. Every word, every gesture is measured and evaluated for weakness. The game is like Wicked Grace played to the death. You must never reveal your cards.”

He nods, though he is uncertain how he can truly understand until he experiences this den of vipers called court. She lets her words linger in the humid air.

“It is an exercise in trust, I think. I simply have to trust in our people,” she determines with deep, calming breath.

As he observes her across the water he recognizes, for the first time, foolishly, that they are like different garments, cut from the same cloth. Maybe their backgrounds are dissimilar, perhaps their approaches may differ, but at their center they believe in hard work and devotion, empathy and trust. He speaks what he would want to hear in her position, as a leader. “And trust _yourself_ that you have prepared them well.” 

She breathes a warm chuckle and swirls the water in front of her into a tiny whirlpool as she mulls over his words.

“I understand that part, at least,” he offers. “On the eve of a battle, I often wonder if I have trained my troops well enough. Have I taught them all they need to know? Are they prepared, or would just one more round of drills be the thing that will win the fight? How many will make it out alive?”

“I imagine the experiences are very similar,” she nods with an ambivalent smile, and her eyes fall to the water again. 

The pull to assuage her nerves drives him to declaration. “We will make it through this intact, if not successfully. I will be there to support the Inquisitor and their team,” Cullen says, dropping his voice low. He chews his lip for a moment, uncertain. “And you.” 

She tilts her head quizzically, as if appraising him, but there’s a softness in her expression that holds him steady. The steamy green of the water reflects in her eyes, more vivid and stormy than ever, and it takes everything in him not to throw their agreement to the wayside, glide across the pool, and sweep her into a kiss. From the way her lips fall open, how she shifts forward in her seat, he wonders if, maybe, this might be what she is thinking too. 

“I...need to get ready,” She says, breaking away with a sigh tinged with regret. “Ah, if you could...?” She makes a twirling motion with her finger, more shy than he would expect from a woman who invited him to bathe with her.

“Oh, I- of course.” With a hard swallow, Cullen turns his back to her, focusing on a storm cloud moving in far in the distance. She moves through the water, and the soft ripples she makes hit him like the waves crashing against the cliffside. 

***

As expected, Josephine is the first to arrive in the foyer. Typically her timeliness is a boon, but tonight it only gives her more time to imagine all the ways the ball can go wrong, pacing back and forth along the ornately tiled floor. The statues of dead generals and opera singers seem to follow her with their eyes, and she turns her back to them just in time to watch Leliana and Vivienne descend the marble staircase, visions in red, closely followed by the Inquisitor. 

“Inquisitor, let me look at you,” she calls, sounding disturbingly like her mother. The Inquisitor strolls over, seemingly unbothered by the significance of the evening. They spin in a circle, flashing a cheeky grin at her. “Sharp, right? Who are we still waiting for?”

Josephine steps forward and makes a few adjustments to the Inquisitor’s epaulets and sash. “As usual, we are waiting on Dorian. And as we wait for Dorian, we wait for the Iron Bull.” 

“Dorian’s probably fussing with his mustache,” the Inquisitor smirks. “Can’t face a crowd of diplomats without the perfect curl, you know.” Their humor in the face of danger is always concerning, but tonight it feels especially ill placed. 

“Are you ready, Inquisitor,” she asks, smoothing the front of their uniform down.

“Always,” the Inquisitor replies breezily, clasping her firmly on the shoulder. The gesture does absolutely nothing to quell her fears. They turn back to Vivienne and Leliana, picking up in the middle of their favorite and oft told story of their time in the Fade. Having given the Inquisitor a once over, she supposes she should ensure herself presentable and makes her way to an ornate gold mirror hanging on the other side of the foyer.

Without looking, she knows she looks immaculate - the perfect and practiced picture of an ambassador. She has done this for nearly a decade, after all. Hair, effortless. Cosmetics, pretty, but modest. Uniform, impeccably tailored. Except...her sash has gotten tangled in the belt - she knew that design was impractical when the seamstress suggested it. Miffed, she sets her fingers on the blue satin, just a bit too far around her waist to reach.

“Ambassador, a word?” She glances up into the mirror and sees Cullen standing directly behind her, tall and broad and devastating. The tonic and the bath must have worked - there is a lovely color in his cheeks and he looks more bright eyed than she has seen him in weeks. Relief tugs at her chest. 

“I, of course, I am just trying to fix my...ugh, my sash,” she grimaces, fidgeting with the fabric.

“Ah, let me,” he offers, turning his eyes to her waist and quickly snaking his fingers into the twisted satin. 

“You wanted to speak to me?” She asks, watching his reflection concentrate at her waist, trying not to notice how very, very close they are.

He speaks as he works at the tangle. “Yes, well- the day I left for templar training, my brother gave me something. It just happened to be in his pocket, but he said it was for luck. I’ve carried it around with me ever since- ah, there we go. All done.” 

He smooths his hand over the satin, pressing it flat. She spins, looking over her shoulder to inspect his handiwork in the mirror. Satisfied, she turns back to see him pulling his hand out of his pocket. Without pretense, he presents a silver token between his thumb and index fingers. 

“Right, so, my brother gave it to me for luck. Templars aren’t supposed to have such things. Our faith should see us through.” She is not sure if she imagines it, but there is a hint of disdain in his voice. “I should have died during the Blight. Or at Kirkwall, or Haven. Take your pick. And yet... “

A booming voice echoes off the marble floors, interrupting him. “Carriages are here! Mount up!” Iron Bull announces, rumbling down the staircase. Dorian follows closely behind, yet another beauty in red, mustache perfectly coiffed. The party begins to trickle out of the foyer towards the courtyard. 

“Oh my,” she whispers, raising a hand to rub at her eyes.

“Here,” Cullen says warmly, taking the hand, pulling her focus. He presses it into her palm. “For luck.” 

The token has a surprising heft to it, and the crudely carved visage of Andraste has a rather rustic charm. Her pulse quickens and she feels it creeping up, that same quizzical look she’d had mere hours ago when he pledged his support. The gesture is touching and unexpected...sweet, even. She stammers out her appreciation. “Thank you. I... _we_ could certainly use some luck tonight.” 

“Everything will be fine.” He shares a quiet, assuring smile, guiding her towards the carriages their colleagues embark.

“Everything will be fine,” she echoes, though she is not certain who she is trying to convince.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The romance between Cullen and Josephine is secondary to the romance between me and this imaginary cliffside hot spring - that is all.


	8. Cooperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courtly curiosity afford the leaders of the Inquisition opportunities; Josephine's family makes an unexpected appearance at the ball.

For all the unknowns and what ifs that had sparked Josephine’s nerves, the moment she steps foot in the Winter Palace she is back in The Game, and she is playing to win. The ballroom glitters with thousands of candles, bathing the attendees in warm, incandescent light. Everyone wears their wealth tonight: ladies, gentlemen, and all alike dripping with jewels and luxury like honey from a buzzing hive. Delectable, yet dangerous if one is unprepared to protect oneself from the inevitable sting. 

All eyes turn to the Inquisition as they enter the ballroom on Grand Duke Gaspard’s heels, and she knows they look impressive: a wave of blood red swirling through the sumptuous splendor, a visual reminder of the war being waged outside the lavish gates of the Winter Palace. Impossible to ignore, just as planned. The Inquisitor is lively, seems to be enjoying the attention thrown their direction, and she thanks her lucky stars that she has someone communicative and confident to hang the Inquisition’s hat on.

A trilling fanfare echoes throughout the ballroom and Empress Celene enters the ballroom in celestial blue, rays of golden sun encircling her. From this distance, she looks exactly the same as she did in Josephine’s days at court, elegance incarnate with a cloud of white blonde hair atop her crown. The sight brings a wistful smile to her lips, a life spinning on dance floors and charming courtiers a sweet but distant memory. 

As they follow the duke down into the dance floor, murmurations of the crowd grow louder, whispers echoing about the hall. They seem split, uncertain whether to look at their empress or at this curiosity sweeping across the dance floor one-by-one. Most seem to choose the spectacle of the Inquisition - a natural conclusion, but still something to celebrate. If one does not make an entrance at the Winter Palace, one simply does not exist. Gaspard stops in front of the empress, speaking shortly with her as if to goad a reaction. She won’t give him one, though. The woman is too demure, too well-trained. Intentionally, Empress Celene is impossible to read.

Vivienne and Dorian float down the steps like well practiced harmonies to the courtly melody. Iron Bull makes his way across the floor and the crowd’s chattering increases tenfold, accompanied by ill mannered and loutish cachinnation. A qunari in the Winter Palace - this may certainly be a first. As the court herald announces each member of their party, the familiar feeling of panic rushes in to Jospehine’s chest, though it is not frantic. She craves this rush, a sickly sweet adrenaline found only in the most critical of moments. It courses through her veins like the crackling energy of the bustling ballroom. The feeling rises and meets a tentative confidence, borne from years of hard learned experience, that whatever may happen tonight, she will fix it, she will flaunt it, she will use it to win this war.

***

Everyone is on their best behavior as they are introduced to Empress Celene - as expected, the Inquisitor’s natural charm plays well at court - though Josephine feels as though she cannot breathe throughout the entire affair. With a gesture and a polite smile, they are dismissed back to the party. The Inquisitor is immediately pulled into conversation with eager courtiers, rallying for attention atop the stairs. As they climb, Josephine and the advisors follow slightly behind silently, waiting to speak to each other until they are somewhere with less opportunity for eavesdropping. 

The voice of the empress sounds again, pulling her from thoughts of who to first introduce the Inquisitor to. “Josephine?”  
  
The empress has returned, speaking unexpectedly familiarly for a setting such as this. Standing nearly right above them, she looks directly down upon the Inquisition, scattered about the staircase. For a moment, Josephine wonders if this dynamic is intentional, a strategy to make them feel physically small and remind her and the Inquisition of Orlais’s power. “Your Majesty?” 

“As the Inquisition’s ambassador, your support for the peace talks is much appreciated.” The empress looks at her, face indecipherable, but her husky voice grows quiet, and shockingly sincere. “It is a comfort to see you at court again. We have missed you terribly.” And then she is gone, her ladies-in-waiting trailing behind her. 

At the top of the stairs, Leliana speaks low, “I have a lead on someone who may have the Empress’s ear. I need to speak to the Inquisitor immediately.” She glances towards the Inquisitor, who has already been accosted by several enthusiastic party goers. They smile affably and accept the attention with indulgence. With a nod, Dorian, Bull, and Vivienne disperse to their assigned posts for the night. 

The advisors pull off to the side, huddled inconspicuously behind a column to speak. Cullen stands soldierly stiff as he speaks, eyes scanning the doorways. “I’ve received word that all entrances and exits are secure. I’ll take to my post if you need nothing more from me, Ambassador.” His gaze falls to her, awaiting her command. 

She nods. “Keep your eye on Duke Gaspa-”

“Josephine!” A familiar, girlish voice cuts her off, and she whips her head around in search of its owner. Before she finds them, someone breaks through their circle, enveloping her in a tight hug. Beyond the girl’s expansive sleeves, Leliana and Cullen’s faces are graced with merry surprise and utter shock, respectively. 

“Yvette!” Any calm she may have found upon entering the Winter Palace is immediately replaced by confusion and a hefty amount of alarm. “What on earth are you doing here,” she sputters, pressing a kiss to the girl’s cheek. To the side, she vaguely registers Leliana whisper to Cullen, “her sister.” 

The girl pulls back from the hug, arms still clasped around Josephine’s shoulders, eyes bright behind her golden mask. “Papa sent me to stay with Auntie Margeurita for the month to visit the museums in Val Royeaux. I am accompanying her tonight.”

“Margot is here? Where is she?” The promise of seeing her favorite aunt bubbles in her chest, though they are popped by the sinking realization that danger lurks the halls of the Winter Palace. Yvette and Margeurita must not be caught in the crossfire. 

Yvette completely ignores the question - at the sight of Leliana, she sparkles with joy. “Oh, Leliana! I am thrilled to see you!” The Nightingale smiles. 

“What a delight to see you again, ma cherie. You seem to have sprouted since the last time I saw you.” Leliana is right, she realizes. Last time she had been home with her family, the girl had hardly reached her shoulders. Now Yvette stands at least two inches taller than her, noticeable even as she coils around Josephine like a vine. 

Leliana takes the girl’s hands, extricating Josephine from her grip, and peppers three air kisses around her. “Are you enjoying the ball?” 

“The dancing is so dreadfully boring, but oh, the royal gallery! They have a Ritzio painting, Josie!” She sighs for punctuation. “I should like to stay there forever. ” 

“Yvette,” Josephine chides, and is met with a fluttering eye roll. Having disentangled themself from their previous conversation, the Inquisitor strides up behind Cullen, who stands off to the side as though he’s uncertain of his place.

Her sister perks at the sight of this new celebrity. “Ooh, Inquisitor! I have been dying to meet you! I have heard so much about you.” Quick as a flash, she whips her head to Cullen. “And who are you?” 

“Yvette, don’t be rude,” Josephine admonishes her. 

“Sorry.” The Montilyets have always had an aptitude for communication, an ease at reading people that has been exceptionally helpful in their business dealings. Aptitude, however, does not dismiss the need for practice and training, both of which her sister refuses to engage in. Mistakenly, Yvette seems to take Cullen’s discomfort for weakness, and not the innate consideration Josephine knows it to be. The girl has only just met her colleagues and she is already embarrassing her. 

“May I present Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition, and the Inquisitor themself,” Josephine says. “This is my younger sister, Yvette Gabriella Montilyet.”  
  
“Hello,” Cullen says, bowing his head. Yvette curtsies half-heartedly before immediately turning her attention to the Inquisitor. 

The Inquisitor grins. “There can never be too many Lady Montilyets in Thedas, can there?” 

“Inquisitor, I have heard so much about you, but not nearly as much as I want,” she gushes. “Josephine writes, but she never _tells_ me anything. Is it true you found Red Templars sacrificing heretics and drinking blood from mages veins?”  
  
“Yvette!” This is what the rumor mill is churning out these days? Absolutely ridiculous. The girl turns to her and even with the mask Josephine knows the look of curious chagrin behind it. 

“Everyone in Antiva City is saying so!” Yvette whips back to the Inquisitor. “Is it true?”

“Oh, it was awful,” the Inquisitor nods, nonchalantly adjusting their cufflinks. “Mage bones everywhere. Practically a river of blood over a carpet of skulls.” 

“Inquisitor…” Cullen says weakly. Leliana hides a laugh behind a well placed hand. 

But of course, Yvette seems positively titillated. “Eek! How awful!” 

“So,” the Inquisitor starts. “I knew Josephine has siblings but she speaks about you all so rarely. Tell us about yourself, Yvette.” 

“She would forget to mention the artists. I am studying painting under Antiva City’s royal tutors. Josie, you should be proud, I am to exhibit next season at the city’s biggest salon!” 

“Have you actually sat down and finished a painting?”  
  
“I must wait for my inspiration!” 

“And I must wait for your tutor’s bills,” Josephine sighs, though she does feel proud. She gives Yvette’s arm a little pat. 

The Inquisitor glances at her with an odd look of mischief before prompting Yvette. “This may be my only chance to hear about when Josephine was a girl.”

“Oh no,” she pleads, already mortified. 

Yvette’s eyes light up. “Oh, yes! Has she told you about when she was ten and-” 

Leliana interjects, saving Josephine from the utter embarrassment of her colleagues learning of the time she gorged herself sick on lavender macarons at Madame Olmsted’s 60th birthday tea luncheon. “Inquisitor, if I may have a word?” 

The Inquisitor turns to Leliana, sucking their teeth in disappointment at their foiled plot. “Ladies Montilyet,” the Inquisitor bows deeply, following Leliana away with a charming grin tossed in Yvette’s direction. 

She calls after them, waving her fan in the air. “You must come visit me in Antiva City soon!” 

And then they are three. 

Cullen and Yvette sharing more than a passing word in this moment is just too much - it was certainly not on her list of the many things that could potentially go wrong tonight, and it definitely was not how she pictured introducing them. Not that she had pictured that at all. With a shake of her head, she gestures towards Cullen’s post, trying to free him (and herself) from this situation with all her will. 

“Commander,” the sisters speak at the same time, though Yvette powers through, speaking over Josephine. “Do you like art?”

He tips his chin up and regards her, then asks, “Are there people who do not, my lady?” 

“Only the most dull and uninteresting people,” Yvette decries, snatching a glass of wine off a passing tray. Just as soon as she has wrapped her fingers around it, Josephine plucks it from her hand, setting it on the balcony railing with a disapproving frown. 

Amusement creeps up onto Cullen’s face, a smile on his face that registers as entertainment. Of course, Yvette’s irritating blunt nature would be charming to anyone else. Still, a little prick of warmth stirs in her chest at their easy conversation. 

“What do you like to paint?” he asks. He glances about the room, though he doesn’t seem to be looking for the escape route she wishes he were. _Why is he still here?_

“I painted the mask I’m wearing tonight!” She juts forward, into his space, to show it off. “I used to paint still life, but I have grown so bored of flowers and jugs of wine. I want to practice my portraiture! It would be so grand to travel the world painting the most beautiful and interesting people of our time! Do you think the Inquisitor would allow me to paint-” 

Yvette practically chokes on her words as she taps repeatedly on Josephine’s arm, rapid as hummingbird wings. “Josie! Do you know who that is?” 

“Who are you talking about?” Josephine asks, swatting Yvette’s hand from her arm.  
  
“The man across the hall, Fransciso Yolande! He is the most incredible sculptor in Orlais, his work is like silk made of marble,” she sighs.  
  
Eager to separate the commander and her sister, Josephine sees this as the opportunity it is. “You should go say hello.”

“Oh, I couldn’t!” She gapes, staring across the wide hall at the sculptor. “Do you think he would speak with me?” 

“Of course he would,” Josephine says, turning her attention to the man and the people he speaks with. If she weren’t at court, if she didn’t have to be so aware of her expressions tonight, her face would scrunch like she’d eaten a lemon whole. With a sigh she says, “Come, I will introduce you. Commander, if you’d like to accompany us on the way to your post?” 

He grimaces (at the prospect of having to actually speak to courtiers, she guesses), glancing to the spot across the hall that he’s meant to spend the evening glued to. “Lead the way.” 

Yvette guides them around the ballroom balconies and Josephine sidles up next to Cullen as they wind between curious courtiers. “The woman speaking with Monsieur Yolande is the Director of Orlesian Ambassadors, Lady Renate Beauvais. I used to work quite closely with her when I was the Antivan Ambassador. She’s friendly, or at least she’d have you think she is.” Cullen frowns as a group of ladies attempts to wave him down. 

“I don’t know who the man they’re with is, but we should speak to her, talk up the Inquisition. She has the Empress’s ear and is one of the most connected people in Orlais. And then you can go stand at your post and hope that no one bothers you,” she chuckles. He looks down at her with a self-effacing half-grin that washes over her like a warm bath, and for a moment they are in the Living Waters again. Nothing but the steaming water and the sound of the ocean and the unspoken truths between them. 

“Josephine!” Once again Josephine is pulled from her thoughts by her name, this time in the thick Orlesian accent of Ambassador Beauvais. She spots them approaching from halfway across the long balcony, and toddles toward them. Her wide skirts wobble with every movement as she skates across the glossy tile, carefully balancing an overly full cocktail. She stops for a moment to sip from the top before tossing a glowing smile in their direction. 

The professional mask of Josephine the Ambassador rises, and her tone to match it. She raises her arms towards the woman. “Renate, such a pleasure. I saw you across the ballroom and I simply had to say hello!” 

“Welcome, welcome! What a wonderful surprise to see you! You’re here as Duke Gaspard’s guest, non?” The Orlesian ambassador asks her questions with a fresh air, as though she does not already know the answers to the next twenty or so she will ask. Josephine translates this one easily - “are you here as Gaspard’s ally, to support his claim to the throne?”

“Yes, we have recently become acquainted,” she replies in a breezy tone. “It is so nice to be back at court. It was so...affirming to see Empress Celene tonight, after so long.” These simple ways of speaking without saying anything are the true fun of the Game for her. 

Renate smiles and takes a sip of her drink. “I understand. And who is this beautiful little flower?’ 

“Forgive me,” Josephine smiles, and introduces Cullen and Yvette. “My sister is an artist and an ardent fan of Monsieur Yolande’s work. I wondered if you might be so kind as to make an introduction.” 

“Why, certainly!” Ambassador Beauvais gestures to follow her back to the men she was speaking to. She shares a few updates on minor nobility that Josephine could not care any less about before saying, “This evening has truly become a family affair - I was just speaking with your Auntie Margeurita not twenty minutes ago. ”

“Were you? My sister mentioned she was here but I’ve yet to set eyes on her.” 

“Oh, you know Margot. She’s gallivanting around, the life of the party. Just look for a crowd of admirers and you’ll find her.” Her aunt’s reputation precedes her in Orlais as much as it does in Antiva. 

The artist is a small man, slight, with dark skin and a pouf of curls peeking out above his mask. His arm wraps loosely about the waist of a man two heads taller than him with a long blonde plait hanging down his back. They seem rather engaged in their conversation, smiling private little smiles at each other. A pang of guilt crosses her mind at interrupting their moment. 

“Oh, Monsieur Yolande, I have a fan who is simply dying to meet you.” Beauvais introduces Yvette, who gives the most perfect, deferential curtsy Josephine can recall her ever giving - the kind reserved for queens and dignitaries. Before she makes a spectacle with the inappropriateness of the gesture, Josephine clears her throat to pull Yvette out of it. “And allow me to present the Ambassador Josephine Montilyet and Commander Cullen…’ 

“Rutherford, madame,” Cullen says, standing a bit behind Josephine as though trying to hide. 

“Yes, Commander Cullen Rutherford, both of _the Inquisition_.” Beauvais nearly whispers at the end, an air of exoticism and mystery about the organization’s name. 

“Always a pleasure to meet a fan,” Yolande says, extending a limp hand. “Which of my works is your favorite, dear?”

“Oh my,” Yvette says, gripping his hand tightly. “I can hardly say, they are all incredible.”

A lifeless smile is there and gone from Yolande’s face before it even registers. Something about this man reminds her of Vivienne, the pomp and circumstance, the dryness and beauty. “That’s kind, dear, but if you must pick?” 

Yvette stutters at the question. “Oh. Oh, um, I do have a particular fondness for _Opine on Idleness._ I saw it in Antiva City at the- _”_

“An excellent choice,” Yolande says, raising his glass to Yvette with a satisfied smirk. The man at his side gives him a look, gestures towards them. “Apologies, I’ve neglected to introduce my dear husband, Tavish Ashbury.” 

“A pleasure,” Tavish smiles, and it’s the kind that Josephine loves, the kind that crinkles around the eyes.

“You are Ferelden?” Cullen asks, surprised. 

A boyish smirk crosses Tavish’s face and he chuckles. “What gave it away? The exotic accent, the name, or the near translucent skin?” 

Cullen grins. “Bit of all three, actually.”

Tavish takes a sip of champagne. “My family are merchants from Redcliffe Village, though we’ve scattered to the winds as of late.”

“Commander Rutherford is from Ferelden too, if you couldn’t tell,” Josephine says, tossing a playful, teasing glance up at Cullen. “What brought you to Orlais, Monsieur Ashbury?

“My mother and sister head our operation shipping from Orzammar, and I moved to Orlais a few years ago to manage our trading. I met Francisco at a party the second night I was here and we’ve been inseparable ever since.” He gazes fondly at Yolande, who scoops another glass of bubbly from a passing server’s tray and raises it in his husband’s direction. “Where in Ferelden are you from, Commander?”

“Honnleath, actually.”

“You’re kidding! Not often I meet someone from my neck of the woods out here. We must have crossed paths at some point and not even known it.”  
  
Cullen shifts his stance from side to side. “Perhaps. I left when I was thirteen to train at the Circle Tower, so I didn’t spend much time in Redcliffe proper after that.”

Tavish’s eyebrows raise in recognition. “Ah, a Templar?”

“Yes,” Cullen says, his tone tight and polite. 

Tavish glances down at the ground, looking like he’s trying to decide whether to say what he wants to or not. He slides into the words like he’s still not sure if he should say them as they leave his mouth. “I...I had a cousin at the Circle. Peter Ashbury, did you know him?” His eyes are sharp, a pain behind them practically begging to come loose.

“Peter.” Cullen’s lips curve into a rueful smile. “Yes, I knew Peter. Quite a rascally fellow. Used to play some terrible pranks on new recruits.”

“Used to do that to yours truly, as well. I once woke up with my mabari licking my hair - Peter has smothered it in nut butter as I slept. Disgusting,” he chuckles. “I was very fond of him. Maker rest his soul.” Tavish’s prayer comes out in a heavy sigh, casting a mournful cloud over the group. Everyone stands in uncomfortable silence for a moment, except for Yvette, who seems to have no perception of the subtext of the conversation, perhaps no knowledge of the massacre at the Circle Tower at all, given her age. As the orchestra starts up a lively saltarello, she turns back to Yolande and begins assailing him with questions about his work.

Tavish tips his glass back, swallowing the remainder of his drink, and Josephine chances a look up at Cullen, whose eyes are downcast at the floor. The desperate need to comfort him rises in her, as does her hand to the back of his arm, thumb brushing softly back and forth. He relaxes under her touch, clearing his throat and looking back up at the group as Beauvais engages them again.

“So,” she says, eyes flashing with rabid curiosity as she knocks back her drink. “ _The Inquisition._ Regale us with tales of your adventures!” 

A practiced smile graces Josephine’s face, masking the irritation and, to be quite honest, slight offence at Lady Beauvais’s way of referring to the Inquisition’s ‘adventures,’ as though they are a traveling circus troupe and not the only thing between Thedas and total annihilation. This is what she warned Cullen about though, that afternoon when they danced, and with Beauvais’s influence hanging in the balance, the moment to spin her story has come.

“It has been quite the whirlwind.” Josephine starts at the beginning, explaining how Leliana came to Orlais to recruit her, of the high hopes for the Conclave and the sudden and terrifying tear in the sky, of the Inquisitor stepping up and answering the call for help with graciousness and confidence. Occasionally, Cullen chimes in to add details but mostly he stands like her shadow, close enough she can feel his warmth, listening and scanning the ballroom. 

“But you have not been in Skyhold long?” Yolande asks, riveted by the story.

“Only a few months. Before that we were in a little town on the outskirts of Ferelden called Haven.” 

“Haven? I swear to you, I had never heard of Haven until everyone spoke of how it had been destroyed!” The Orlesian ambassador laughs, behaving unexpectedly gauche for a woman of her position. 

“You weren’t there, were you?” Yvette’s voice is small, and Josephine feels her heart break as the girl is exposed to these realities of war and fear. 

“We were,” Cullen answers for her. She had known that to secure the hearts, minds, and pockets of Orlais it would require her to pull back the bandages and show people the open wounds. With a grateful glance at him, she clears her throat and shares a self-conscious smile with the group as she prepares to tell the tale of the horrible night. The small group of people suddenly feels like a crowd, suffocating in their curiosity. Yet what an opportunity to tell a story of the many heroes of the Inquisition while one stands right before them!

“The night started splendidly. The entire town was celebrating how the Inquisitor heroically closed the Breach. Everyone was singing and dancing and there was _plenty_ of drinking.” She pauses for the polite laughter of the group. “We were all taking a moment to breathe after a challenging campaign.” The memory of imploring Cullen to rest springs to mind, the sinking feeling at how he could hardly meet her eye. 

“It was lovely, and then it was...chaos,” she glances at Yvette, deciding not to sugar coat the story on her sister’s behalf. “The ground was shaking and people were screaming. All the soldiers were running to the front lines” She smiles at the group as if letting them in on a secret. “I’m a diplomat, not a soldier. But I knew I had a job to do here as well, so I made my way towards the gates to identify our aggressor, offer any kind of help I could.” A number of people around them start moving in to listen to the tale. 

“By the time I was down at the gates, so was Cull- ah, Commander Rutherford, directing the troops. I was amazed that he was able to cut straight through the pandemonium with such clarity and grace when all I wanted to do was curl up and hide.” She looks up at him, genuine in her admiration. 

“We all play our part,” Cullen replies, clearing his throat awkwardly when he realizes all eyes have swung to him. 

Josephine turns back to the crowd. “Explosions were landing all around us, bodies flying through the air on impact.” Surprised at the emotion creeping into her own voice, she stops to regain her composure. Swallowing, she looks up at Cullen, who looks at her with a soft, pained look, as if he is reliving the night with her. Somehow, it is encouraging to not be alone in the telling of this story. “He sent me back to the Chantry. I think it was the worst hour of my life, just waiting while the battle raged outside, not sure if my friends would live or die.”

“It certainly wasn’t the best of mine,” he chuckles, speaking only to her. “After I sent Josephine back to the Chantry-” Yvette’s eyes snap up, catching Josephine’s with a mischievous spark - “things only got worse from there.” He tells of the demons and dragon, of the horrors the Elder One promised. “I...I was losing hope. The enemy outnumbered us, ten demons to every fighter. We knew we needed to do something drastic, whether we survived it or not.” 

Realizing the crowd around them has grown to nearly thirty, Josephine speaks with quiet drama, reeling them in. “A Chancellor named Roderick knew of a secret path out of Haven, into the Frostbacks. But to truly escape, we’d need a distraction.” The group listens intently, riveted, hanging on every word. 

“An avalanche,” Cullen states. As if she had written the cue herself, the group gasps. 

“So it was decided. We would usher any survivors we could into the mountains and bury the town and all the demons under snow. I must admit, I was so terrified and I was just...frozen. I couldn’t move.” This is the moment, she thinks, the moment she seals the story for the crowd, makes certain Cullen and the Inquisition come out of the story as heroes. “But the Commander knew what to do. The moment I saw him I knew we would make it out of this nightmare.” 

“I didn’t,” he mutters, shifting his weight. 

“I did,” she says, turning her gaze to him, resolute. And it’s true, not just a phrase for the sake of some noble ears. The firm grip of his hand had been the most grounding sensation in violent turmoil; his steadfast courage a beacon in their darkest of nights. An uncertain smile wavers on his lips, but he turns back to the now quite large group to finish the story.

“So what happened?” Yvette asks. “I mean, you survived, so it worked, right?”

Cullen looks at her solemnly. “We turned all the trebuchets at the nearest snowcap and fired.”

The crowd breaks into excited chatter, and Cullen steps towards them, voice assertive as though he were rallying troops for battle. “Fine soldiers, good people, sacrificed their lives for the Inquisition to fight on. They saw the threat come upon Haven. They knew what will happen if the Elder One and his army continue their rampage.” 

Josephine speaks earnestly. “Haven barely survived, but what of Redcliffe or Denerim? What of Val Royeaux or Halamshiral? We are lucky we have lived to tell the tale,” she says, putting a hand on Cullen’s shoulder. “The Inquisition is fighting to make sure that what happened to Haven happens nowhere else.” 

“Marvelous,” Yolande says, a spark of inspiration in his eye. The rest of the group murmurs their support and breaks into enthusiastic clapping.

Ambassador Beauvais speaks. “So, pray tell, what is the status of Haven now?”

“Josephine helped organize the funerals of nearly seventy fallen comrades and the Inquisition is helping the town rebuild,” Cullen says to the crowd. “Beyond that, we are partnering with the town to create a memorial to honor the fallen.”

Yolande sniffs with a cultivated air of casualness. “And who, may I ask, is the artist behind this memorial?” 

“We’ve been quite busy with the rebuilding and have not yet selected one,” Josephine replies, noticing Leliana lurking just on the outskirts of the slowly dispersing group. As Yolande and Ashbury share a look, Leliana speaks.

“Good evening, everyone. I hate to interrupt, but the Inquisitor needs to speak with the Ambassador and Commander.” “I’m afraid we must leave you,” Josephine smiles. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, gentlemen. I do hope our paths cross again.”

“As do we,” Tavish replies with a firm smile. “Thank you for your service.” 

The balcony Leliana leads them to is secluded, populated only by a few kissing couples and a sleeping drunk. The cool air is refreshing against the heat of victory - Josephine expects more than a few donations from the nobles who had listened to their tale. As soon as they step foot on the balcony, Cullen seems to deflate, leaning against a gazebo as though the energy he was giving off to the crowd was unsustainable. 

Leliana clasps her arms behind her back. “The Inquisitor has already had a number of skirmishes in the short time we have been here.”  
  
“Oh goodness,” Josephine says. “Have they found the assassin?” 

“More like they have found many. The Inquisitor also spoke with Celene’s ladies-in-waiting. They say Celene is eager to help and will pledge her support.” Josephine waits, certain that it cannot be so simple. She must want something in return. “As long as we help her remove Gaspard. It would also seem that the Inquisitor found an emissary for the Council of Heralds dead, killed with a weapon bearing the Chalons family crest. The Inquisitor and their party were then attacked by Venatori. It seems the palace is crawling with them. Cullen, you need to update your agents.”

Cullen sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I believe I’m developing a bit of a headache.”

“That’s not all,” Leliana says, pointing beyond the doors to the ballroom. “I believe the Inquisitor is about to dance with Lady Florianne.” 

Josephine’s words slip out of her mouth and she only realizes what they were as a devilish grin creeps across Leliana’s face. “Oh, Maker’s Breath.” 

***

The Inquisitor climbs the stairs with a grim expression but as soon as they are in front of the advisors it crumbles into a grin directed straight at Josephine. “How did I do?” 

“You were wonderful, Inquisitor.” Josephine beams. “You’ll be the talk of the court for months.” 

Cullen cuts in. “You were lovely, but more importantly, what happened in the servant’s quarters? Leliana said there was fighting.” 

Josephine’s brow furrows. “It appears the peace talks are crumbling. We need to act.”

“The Grand Duchess told me there’s proof Gaspard is in league with Tevinter,” the Inquisitor reveals, leaning back against a nearby column.

Leliana seems almost impressed. “She offered up her own brother? She’s more cutthroat than I realized.” 

Cullen puts the pieces together. “Then...the attack on the empress will happen tonight.”

“Warning Celene is pointless,” Josephine says, shaking her head. “She needs these talks to succeed, and to flee would admit defeat.”

Leliana shrugs. “Then perhaps we should let her die.” 

The Inquisitor launches forward from the column, dismayed. “I thought we came here to save the empress!”

“Listen to me carefully, Inquisitor,” Leliana says, taking a step closer to them. “What Corypheus wants is chaos. Even with Celene alive, that could still happen. To foil his plan, the empire must remain strong. This evening, _someone_ must emerge victorious.”

Appalled, Josephine gapes silently at Leliana. The thought of sending the only person lending any kind of stability to Thedas to her death at a time like this - of standing idle as someone is murdered - is unthinkable. “Do you realize what you’re suggesting, Leliana?” 

Leliana’s face is brutally cold. “Sometimes the best path is not the easiest.” Josephine shakes her head in disbelief, flashes a look of desperation to Cullen for support.

The twist of his brow suggests he is conflicted, though his voice is clear when he speaks. “Whoever controls the Imperial Throne will affect all of Thedas.” 

It takes all her energy to keep her arms at her sides rather than throwing them into the air.“Then we should support Celene! She _is_ the rightful ruler. Why would we say otherwise?”

“I would suggest Briala,” Leliana offers. “She could bring true peace, not only to the empire but also to its elves.” 

The Inquisitor seems unconvinced. “Cullen? What do you think?” 

He tilts his head to the sky and ponders for a moment. She hopes he heeds her words in the bath. “We need to solidify our known quantities in this fight. Ousting Celene and introducing someone like Gaspard or Briala to the throne right now could cause instability in ways we can’t even anticipate. I am with the ambassador - we should support Celene.” 

The Inquisitor’s grim expression is back. “Then we save Celene.”

***

When Josephine finally tracks down her Aunt Margeurita, the woman is two and a half sheets to the wind and waving a handkerchief to catch her attention. She practically sings in Antivan, “Over here, my angel! Josephine, over here, my sweet!” The crowd of people around her are charmed by her outlandish tendencies, joining her in summoning Josephine as a chorus. 

“Margot!” Her aunt is known as a great beauty throughout Antiva, with dark curls and a button nose that Josephine had always wished she had been blessed with. She wears an enormous red ball gown, sitting low on her décolleté, with more ruffles and bows than she can count. A delicate mask of gold filigree perches on her nose, depicting the Royal Ativan Navy waging war across her face. Despite Margeurita’s composure, bright splotches of pink give away that she has overindulged in the fine liquor offerings of the palace. 

The woman scoops her into a tight hug. “I knew you’d find me. When Yvette told me you were here, I decided to stay put, right in this spot!” She leans back, swiping a gloved hand across Josephine’s cheek lovingly, then turns and presents her to the gaggle of people she sits with. All of them are beautiful, and she recognizes a few as up-and-coming artists and philosophers with youthful countenance and sharp minds. She would expect Margeurita to surround herself with no less.

They are all deeply fascinated by the Inquisition, and for a time Josephine answers each and every question they have (of which, there are many). Eventually, Marguerita seems to tire of them, and she links arms with Josephine, leading her to a nearby railing that overlooks the dance floor. 

“Forgive me for pulling you away from the fun, but I so wanted to have some time with you to myself,” Margeurita says, twirling one of Josephine’s loose curls around her fingers. She speaks in their mother tongue, and it feels so good to hear the sound of home within the Orlesian palace. “I miss you terribly, my little love. I feel like I hardly know what is happening with you. Your mama tries to keep me abreast of your life, but it would seem you don’t share much?” 

Josephine blushes. “Well, I don’t want to worry anyone when they have so much to take care of already.”

“We are your family. We want to know,” she says, eyes lingering on Josephine’s face. 

The invitation to confide to someone who is not so ingrained in the Inquisition feels too good to pass up. For nearly an hour, Josephine regales her aunt with the story of how she came to be Ambassador, of the friends she has made and the nobles she has curried favor with, of the preparations for tonight’s ball. As she finishes, she realizes that somehow, remarkably, Cullen had not found his way into any of these stories. That perhaps she is too shy to even say his name to her aunt, for fear of the woman catching notice of Josephine harboring any romantic feelings. 

“I must say, Josie, you have lived quite a life for someone so young.” Margeurita turns to the dance floor with a grin. “Oh - the Inquisitor and Lady Florianne’s dance was shocking!”

“Shocking in a good way, I hope,” Josephine says, running her hands along the bannister.

Margeurita smiles, a little sly. “Well, I don’t think anyone expected them to do nearly as well as they did, even with that little stumble on the first turn.”

Yvette saunters towards them, lifting her mask to stuff a brightly colored confection into her mouth. Josephine wraps an arm around her sister and says, “I _am_ happy to see you.” She can practically feel the girl beaming back at her and feels a bit guilty for teasing her about the tutor’s bills. “How are Mama and Papa?” 

“They are well! Papa has been teaching painting at the university. _Mother_ is the same as always.” 

“Oh, Yvette,” Josephine sighs with a roll of her eyes. “So she is after you to help out more? You really must--” 

“I don’t want to, I want to do my art!” 

“Girls, please,” Margeurita interrupts. “Yves and Esperanza are healthy and happy, Josie, and I should like to report the same of you to them. Is it true?” 

Josephine smiles, though it falls a bit flat. “Yes, Margot. I am as healthy and happy as one can be while at war.”

Margeurita sighs and searches Josephine’s face. “I imagine it’s quite lonely way up there in the icy Frostbacks...your parents are still searching for a match for you, you know?”  
  
Her stomach flips and feels like it lands outside of her body. Josephine purses her lips and leans over the balcony, watching the dancers move about. “I figured as much.”

“What about the Commander, Josie?” Yvette says, chomping down on another dainty pastry.

Josephine throws a glare in the girl’s general direction. “What _about_ the Commander, Yvette?” 

“He calls you ‘Josephine!’ He called you ‘Josephine’ in front of all of court!’” 

“That is my name.” 

“Okay, Ambassador Montilyet, whatever you say,” Yvette huffs, crossing her arms and leaning back against the bannister. 

Marguerita’s eyes bounce between the sisters, and she speaks tentatively. “Does...does someone catch your attention, my dear? If they knew your feelings laid elsewhere, I’m certain your parents would stop their search.” 

The waltz she watches comes to an end. Celene enters the ball room and the Inquisitor walks across the dance floor to meet her. The Empress’s speech is in only a few moments, and Florianne, Gaspard, and Briala congregate on the stairs. As the dancers clap politely for the orchestra, Josephine’s hand snakes into her pocket, to the small coin hanging heavy with the weight of the future.

Yvette speaks in a rush as though she knows she will be cut off at any moment. “I met him tonight, Margot, he’s the Inquisition’s general-”

There is simply no time for this nonsense while Orlais’s future - Thedas’s future - hangs in the balance. “Yvette, please!”

The Inquisitor’s voice booms throughout the ballroom as they speak to Lady Florianne. “We owe the court one more show, Your Grace.” The Inquisitor’s accusations expose Florianne’s treachery, drawing gasps of shock and horror from the crowd. On so many levels, it is the most eventful night at court that Josephine can ever recall. 

***

Hours later, settled among the plush velvets blankets and copious pillows, Josephine lies awake. It’s hardly even late in the evening, but everyone has already retired to their rooms, tired from the excitement of the ball and the proper ousting of Corypheus’s agents from Orlais. And on the Imperial Throne sits Empress Celene, with her coin and her connections and her support for the Inquisition. Truthfully, Josephine cannot imagine how the evening could have gone much better, and she had even seen her family. 

She scrambles under the thick blankets to curl on her side. Even in the darkness she can see the outline of Cullen’s coin on the nightstand. Maybe it was fate, maybe it was the Inquisitor, but maybe the coin simply worked. The only thing that soured the evening was the rather expected, though undesired, news from home that her parents still searched for a suitor for her. Naturally, and she wishes it weren’t quite so naturally, her mind wanders from this grave news to the only person she would ever want to entertain. If it weren’t for this stupid man and that stupid, adorable scar on his lip she would consider any suitor her parents proposed. She would probably even marry them, if it would benefit everyone involved. 

A gurgling growl comes from her stomach and it occurs to her that in the activity of the day she has not eaten since breakfast. She shuts her eyes against it, not wanting to pull herself from the warmth of her bed, but is met with another, louder noise and the unfortunate realization that yes, she is in fact very hungry. With a grumble, she climbs out of bed and wraps her robe of midnight blue silk around her, not bothering to put on shoes. 

She opens the door into the hallway that connects all the bedrooms in the wing that she, Leliana, and Dorian are in. All the doors are closed to the outside world - everyone has already gone to sleep after the long day. Or at least, nearly everyone. At the end of the other wing, Cullen’s door is ajar, a crack of light spilling into the hall. 

For a moment she stands there, considering the crack of light and the door and the man beyond it. With a deep breath, she steps back into her room, grabbing his coin off the nightstand, then begins the long journey down the short hallway.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter - there were a lot of moving pieces and I didn’t want to simply rehash the level. It took me a bit to puzzle over, but I'm quite happy with how it came together! Thank you so much for reading. <3


	9. Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the ball, the Ambassador and Commander clear the air.

Josephine’s candle leads the way through the darkened corridor, a soft flame passing through grids of smoky windowpane shadows. There’s a force to her steps, a peculiar intensity that carries her along, running contrary to the depth of the constant fatigue that she has almost fondly come to know. It is simply exhausting, this wild expanse he occupies in her overburdened mind.

A romantic at heart and a pragmatist at hand, she had once been called. Pragmatic by way of necessity, perhaps, having been born heir apparent to a noble family saddled with crippling debt and a sullied reputation for generations. But Antivan passion courses through her veins, often erupting in the most unexpected moments. Thanks to hard lessons learned well, it does not rear its vivid face often in her diplomatic engagements. She must concede though, it does have a propensity towards exacerbating already delicate personal situations like the one at hand. 

She cannot say that this has happened before, not quite like the state of affairs with Cullen. 

It is as though she has tunnel vision, the way she does not know how she crossed from the east wing to the west, but his door is before her, heavy and inlaid with delicate patterns of shimmering opal and gold. Her toes barely touch the amber light spilling out into the hall.

She takes a breath, deep and grounding, and knocks. It is quiet, so as not to disturb Iron Bull or Vivienne or the Inquisitor, but she has done it. For a moment she waits, standing expectantly in the hall with the pit in her stomach and the racing thoughts in her mind.

There is no answer, no sounds of a teacup being set down or of feet padding towards the door. Yet the door is cracked. Perhaps an invitation to whoever among them may be awake at this hour? With a gentle push, the door creaks open, to sate her curiosity.

A small huff of self deprecating laughter forces its way out her nose, sending the flame of her candle fluttering. The relief she feels is a funny thing, a reaction both mental and physical in its manifestation and tinged with disappointment. Of course the door is open, of course the light is spilling out, because amidst the neatly folded uniform and unmade bed, Cullen is nowhere to be found. All that anticipation and he is not even in the room. 

With a sigh and a shake of her head, she closes the door back to the exact angle it had been left open, hoping to leave no trace that she had intruded.

***

Off in search of the kitchens she wanders the halls, hunger growing more insistent by each passing moment. They are remarkably well hidden, but she does not want to bother the staff at this hour if it is not necessary. Another cursed fork in the road greets her at the end of the hall. Irritated, she contemplates which way to turn. 

A dry cough echoes from the hallway to the left, and she notices the double doors at the end are wide open. Light pours into the chilly marble corridor, inviting her to investigate. Almost every time, curiosity will win over hunger, and this time is no exception. At the end of the hall, sweet serendipity graces her with its kindness.

Braced against a desk in the well stocked library, Cullen stares into the thick tome laid in front of him. The sleeves of his tunic are haphazardly pushed up over muscled forearms, his brow furrowed and mouth twisted into a jagged line of concentration. Guilt creeps up her neck - she feels like an intruder upon his already limited private time. How this is any different from knocking upon his door, she’s not quite sure. 

The view is undeniably sensuous. Believing herself invisible, she stands and stares, taking him in. The glow of his chamberstick and the hearth scatter shadows about the line of his stubbled jaw, the thin scar splitting his lip, the crags of age and war just barely beginning to carve their way into the space between his dark brows. She takes heart at the lines about his eyes, the ones that derive from joy and laughter, and finds a swell in her chest at the idea of helping him create more. 

If he sensed her presence, he does an excellent job of feigning surprise when he catches her eye.

“You’re still up,” he says. She cracks a smile, caught in the act. 

She leans against the doorframe with a smile of familiarity, wraps an arm about herself with an air of nonchalance. “I could say the same of you.” 

“Couldn’t sleep.” He seems frozen in place, the way only his eyes drift over her, and she is suddenly so aware of her mess of curls hanging loose, of how the silk of her robe skims her breasts and drapes from her hips. There is a fascination, a longing in how he takes her in, the weight of his gaze not unlike the one she’d knowingly let him get away with in the baths. But now the brazenness to admire her so plainly - it’s as though he hardly realizes he is doing it. She will not be the one to stop him. Not when it feels so good. 

He blinks quickly then and, as if to break free from his thoughts, pushes himself up from the table. 

She hums in agreement. Raising his eyebrows, he motions to her place in the door. “Are you spying on me?” 

Suppressing a laugh, she smiles. “No, Commander, my spying days are quite behind me.” 

He grins at first, thinking it simply a joke, but must sense some kind of odd truth behind her words. Cocking his head in curiosity, he opens his mouth to speak, but before he can continue she cuts him off. 

“Did you eat?” Even as she brims with hope that he will join her, she holds herself with a stillness that would make her finishing school mistresses proud.

He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous habit she’s noticed that delights her each time. “I seem to have gotten my appetite back, but not enough to stomach those awful little pies they were passing around at the palace.” 

“I know,” she says, rolling her eyes. “With that much money you’d think they could offer better canapes.” The laughter they share is easy. In the preceding months she had wondered if anything about them could ever be easy again. “I’m going to try to scrounge up something in the kitchens...if you’d like to join me?”

His smile falters a bit and his eyes flicker between her and the book. For a rather disheartening moment she worries he may turn her down. She slips a hand into the pocket of her robe, flipping the coin between her fingers.

For luck.

***

It absolutely should not be this difficult to find the kitchens of Chateau, but together they spend nearly fifteen minutes wandering about the labyrinthine halls and courtyards, unable to find the singular door they are in search of. Each time they think they have found it, behind the door lies another sitting room or a broom closet. The seeming impossibility of ever finding their goal sends them dissolving into exasperated laughter each time they encounter another dead end. 

“This is ridiculous!” Josephine snorts, running a hand over her face. They’ve rounded the corner that houses a rather repugnant bust of Emperor Judicael I for the third time, and she’s on the verge of agitation, considering her level of hunger. Creamy soft boiled eggs, biscuits and jam, and crisp rashers of bacon float seductively through her mind. “Of all the grand Orlesian homes I have visited, I have never had such difficulty understanding a layout.” 

“There _is_ a kitchen here, right?” Cullen asks as he peers into yet another sitting room. “They have to feed people from somewhere.”

“They do…” she trails off in thought, then snaps her fingers in excitement. “Ah! Follow me.”

She is off, at a speed driven by adventure (and hunger), certain that she is on the verge of solving this very strange mystery. He trails behind her at a leisurely pace, but she doesn’t wait for him. Instead, she follows her hunch towards the grand dining room near the center of the Chateau. The dining room is a bit ostentatious if she’s being blunt, with a crystal chandelier that dwarfs the ceiling and a table that runs the length of the cavernous room.

She walks the perimeter of the room examining the walls, but what she searches for does not make itself known. Discouraged, she turns to leave. Cullen braces himself in the doorway, surveying the room with a lackadaisical smirk. “You think they have the kitchen in here, do you?”

Scoffing an eye roll at him, she ducks under his broad wingspan and finds her target straight ahead. On the wall parallel to the dining room entryway there is a thin rectangular outline, hardly noticeable within the flowery wallpaper and gold trims. 

“Oh, ye of little faith,” she smirks at him, lifting a concealed panel to reveal a slim door knob. With a turn of the wrist, she swings the door open, revealing a descending staircase. “The exceptionally wealthy work in mysterious ways.” 

***

The kitchens are down below, it seems, because they are so large they would take up nearly a quarter of the east wing. The Chateau is equipped to handle the largest of banquets, with a hearth almost the length of the room and three large ovens. Only a small section of the hearth is lit, bathing the giant prep tables and hanging pots and pans in a dim golden glow. The warmth from the hearth is hardly enough to heat the room. Her bare feet are freezing against the stone floor, but she won’t risk the return journey for slippers - there’s no telling if she would ever be able to find her way back. 

They set to work puttering about the room, peeking through baskets and cabinets for anything tasty that the staff won’t miss. While she arranges a crusty baguette and a fine looking hard cheese upon a plate, Cullen disappears into a cellar. 

“See if you can find some honey,” she calls to him. He reappears moments later, arms overloaded with apples, a container of dried dates, a small jug of honey, a bottle of wine, and two delicate glasses. Giggling at how he awkwardly balances the armful, she plucks the jug of honey that hangs precariously from his fingers, pouring the golden syrup into a little dish. 

He carefully sets the glasses down in front of her, then deposits the dates and the wine bottle on the table. One moment, she is uncorking the wine, the next he is pulling a paring knife from a block, cutting a thin slice off the side of the apple.

It hits her by surprise, right in the chest, as she glances up at him across the island. He leans against the woodblock, eating the apple right off the knife, and there it is: the soft domestic fantasy of her daydreams playing out before her. Blinking against the thought, she tips the bottle with a heavy pour for each glass. Raising her drink to him, she gulps the dry red down. 

Satisfied with their spread, they tuck in, chewing in silence as they calm the ravenous hunger. She spoons a bit of honey onto a slice of bread and cheese, taking a rather large bite, and lets out a happy hum.

“This is amazing,” she says between bites. The honey is delicious, so pure and floral against the tartness of the apple. He glances at her over his glass of wine and chuckles. It’s sweet as the honey. 

“My family had bees when I was growing up,” he says, slathering a chunk of cheese onto bread. “At the end of the summer my parents would harvest it and then my siblings and I would do the extraction.” 

“Extraction?” she asks, dipping an apple. A thick drip of honey slides off the apple and onto the side of her thumb. 

“Yes, well, the honey is in the comb, right,” he explains. “To only get the liquid you have to separate the honey and the wax. So we’d get our hands in there and crumble the wax. Then you strain them to separate.” 

“Sounds sticky.” Raising her hand to her mouth, she licks the syrup off. Perhaps not the most elegant way to clean oneself, but there is no one to impress here, no decorum to follow.

“It...is.” He diverts his attention back to the forgotten food in his hand, taking a considerable bite. “But it’s great fun, too. My mother would make candles from the wax. I always liked watching the wax melt over the fire. Stuck a finger in there once to see if I could make a candle the shape of my hand. _That_ ended in tears.” 

“Oh no,” she moans, clapping a hand to her face. Her cheek is hot against her palm, and she is probably drinking too much, too quickly, but it feels so good to blur the edges of her thoughts. It makes her smile come a little quicker, her laugh a little brighter. 

“I was not the brightest of 8-year-olds,” he nods, grinning as he takes a drink. 

“So, this ‘extraction’ was done with your _siblings,_ as in plural. You have your younger brother, but you have not mentioned the others.” She props her head in her hand and pours herself another glass, then tops his off as well. “Don’t tell me, I am going to guess.”

“Okay,” he laughs, taking a sip. 

“I think that you have at least two more. Yes, two,” she says, staring at the ceiling in thought. “Probably both sisters.” She glances at him for confirmation. He watches her with rapt curiosity. She continues.

“Alright, both sisters,” she nods. “One of them is definitely younger. But you do not strike me as the eldest of your siblings.”

He gives her a funny look, then says, “What makes you think that?” 

“You are far too comfortable taking orders,” she grins. “You _must_ have an older sibling. And I say this as an eldest sibling.” 

His face contorts into something resembling amusement. “Yes, I have an older sister. Mia.”

She bats her eyes and shrugs a shoulder in demure victory. 

“I _am_ the commander of an army, you know. I don’t take orders from most people,” he scoffs, crossing his arms. 

“Yes, but you spent, what, the last eighteen, twenty years getting there?” She grins, shrugging playfully. “Older sisters prime one for a life of service is all I am saying!” 

His laugh starts slow, a small chuckle from the chest that quickly turns into a belly laugh. This sound is so rare, she does not ever remember hearing it. His eyes crinkle beautifully at the corners and his laugh is completely infectious, and soon she is joining him, giggling uncontrollably in a mixture of humor and victory and wine and deep affection. 

“Mia would be delighted to hear you say that,” he laughs, swiping a hand across his neck. 

“Tell me about them,” she smiles. 

“Well, Mia is the eldest, then me, then Branson and Rosalie. They were always making me laugh, but they were very loud.” He gives a bashful look. “We used to be close. They all live near to each other and I’ve...not been home for some time. I’m not very good about keeping in touch with them.” By the way his voice trails off it would seem he is faraway, somewhere in Ferelden if she had to guess. 

“Speaking of your brother,” she says, changing the topic to grant him some ease. “It would seem your token of good luck worked.” 

She pulls the coin out of her pocket and slides it towards him, ignoring the small ache in her heart at the idea of having to return it. Her words are more an apology than a statement. “Thank you for being so kind to Yvette tonight.” 

He gives a half-smile and shakes his head as he leans back in his seat. “As you’ve so expertly guessed, I have sisters. I know how it can be. You seem to be very close with your family.” 

“Oh, we are very close. For better or worse,” she smiles. “I am the oldest, then my brothers Lucien and Antoine. They live in Antiva on my family’s estate- they’re rebuilding our fleet. And then of course you met my darling baby sister.” For effect, she gives a roll of her eyes as she takes another drink. 

“She reminds me a bit of Rosalie,” he says, tearing a chunk of bread. “That is to say...she seems to be a handful.”

“You have no idea,” Josephine groans. “She does not seem to understand just how charmed a life she leads...the sacrifices people make so she may paint every chrysanthemum in Antiva.” 

“It went well tonight, didn’t it,” he says, plucking the coin from the island. He raises it to his eyeline, examining it with satisfaction. “Despite all your efforts towards preparation, I still could not have expected any part of what happened tonight.”

“You mean you were surprised to find the Grand Duchess was colluding with Corypheus to assassinate her cousin and assume power over the throne of Orlais? I can’t imagine why.”

They both chuckle, a strange sensation against the high stakes of the night. 

“I actually can’t think of a better scenario for the Inquisition than how the evening played out. And you were so...verbose,” she teases, pouring herself another glass of wine. When she turns to pour him some more, he holds up a hand - his first glass has hardly been drunk. “I was very impressed by your impassioned storytelling.”

His cheeks flush and he scoffs, trading the coin in his fingers for a date from the tray. 

“The crowd couldn’t take their eyes off you! I’m sure how you look in the uniform helped.”

The scoff morphs to a smirk, and the way his gaze slowly rises is like a dare. “And...how did I look in the uniform?” 

She doesn’t answer, crunching on a deliberate bite of apple slice instead. Their day has been long. The conversation in the baths, their unity at the palace, this comfortable intimacy in the kitchen - it has all felt better than nearly anything between them in months. 

So, of course, it cannot stay. Of course not. 

With deliberate fingers he tears the date apart and stuffs the flesh in his mouth. As he chews, his brow furrows and the expression on his face morphs to one of puzzlement. Her stomach drops.

“Remind me,” he says. 

She raises her glass to her lips, using it to hold her back from the verge of a deep sigh. “Of what?” 

“Remind me why we can’t have this.” His body is rigid, save for his thumb and forefinger. Between them, he rolls the pit back and forth as though he can sprout the answers to his questions out of the hard seed.

“We’re having such a nice time...can’t we just have a nice time?” she pleads, running her fingers up and down the stem of her glass. 

He frowns, almost apologetically. “No. No, I don’t think we can.” 

She takes a long drink, the wine that had fueled her good mood suddenly turning into a way to drown her discomfort. “It won’t work.” 

“Feels like it’s working pretty well right now,” he mutters. 

It’s amazing how much one does not remember the feeling of crushing tension until it is flooding a room, she thinks. 

The rigidity in his posture is gone. He lobs the pit onto the plate, spinning to her with a growl. “You’re absolutely confounding, you know that? I’m so tired of being played in another one of your games.” 

“ _What?_ ” she hisses through her teeth. He has never spoken to her like this, not even in their worst of moments.

He taps his hand on the counter, punctuating his statements as he speaks. “I thought you wanted me as much as I wanted you. You said we shouldn’t. You said that it was a mistake to even try, and then not three weeks later you’re _flirting_ all over Skyhold with Blackwall.”

She shakes her head, mouth tight with anger. “I wasn’t-”

“If you were trying to make me jealous, congratulations, it worked.” Behind the anger and accusations, there is the unmistakable strain of hurt in his voice. “I should have known better, I should have expected to be manipulated-”

“Cullen, stop!” She explodes, hands waving wildly. “Just stop!” 

He shuts his mouth so hard she can hear his teeth clack together. The intensity of his words rings in her ears, but she is running on adrenaline now.

“I am not _manipulating_ you - I am _exhausted,_ ” she snaps. “Between the Inquisition and Haven and my family’s affairs and _you_ , I hardly have space in my mind for my own thoughts! No matter what I am doing, you always seem to find a way to _creep_ in. I think about you every moment of every day, and it’s - it’s infuriating!”

For a moment, his anger is replaced by something far softer. “I didn’t-”

“You want to know why I talked to Blackwall? Because I was trying to distract myself from _you_. But even though he was always kind to me and never _insulted_ me-”

“I’ve already apologized!” 

The wine has loosened her tongue, encouraging her to barrel onward. “You expect one apology to fix months of undermining and questioning my character? When you say these things, you are saying I am a failure. That I am ineffective in my role, that I should not be here, and that I will _fail_ the Inquisition.” 

“I never said any of that!” With a low growl of frustration, he stands from his seat, pacing the length of the hearth as he speaks. “You are putting meaning onto words where there was none! I am not one of your courtiers filling every sentence with double meaning!” 

“Then what _do_ you think?”

“Did you even read my letter?” 

Her eyes widen, recalling his apologies. “Of course I did.” 

“Then I don’t know what you want from me,” he says, shoulders raising to his ears. “I told you where I was coming from. I said I was wrong.” 

“You _were_ wrong,” she grumbles into her wine glass. She wishes he could be wrong about everything.

“ _I know,”_ he says, dragging a hand over his face and turning to the hearth. “I just said as much.” His shoulders fall as his posture deflates.

He stands quietly, gazing into the fire. She stares daggers into his back, trying to find her next argument. 

“It’s all beside the point, anyway,” she says. “It’s dangerous for two advisors to the Inquisition to be together.” The argument sounds weak to her own ears. Her weakest yet. 

He turns back to her, and the bafflement on his face feels like a challenge. “Dangerous _for who_?”

Her eyes dart around the room, grasping for the answer. In her inebriation, she hadn’t gotten quite that far. “Fo-for everyone we are trying to protect! Fraternization within an organization always leads to disaster.”

“That’s absurd,” he dismisses with a scowl. 

“It’s not! When I was the ambassador to Orlais, there were always people consorting with each other on one council or another and it always impacted the quality of-” 

A fire burns behind his eyes when he cuts her off. 

“I have seen true danger in ranks before, and I promise you, _this_ is not it.” He huffs a sigh and shakes his head, holding his hands up in surrender. “You know what? You may not be on the front lines of this war, but I am, and I don’t want to spend whatever time I have left fighting with you. You, who insists on denying happiness as if it could make you weak.” 

Watching him walk away is like death by a thousand cuts and she deserves every one of them. She jumps to her feet. It is clear: this is the last chance to right the sinking ship. 

“Cullen, I don’t want to fight with you. I want to be with you!” 

He turns to look just as she lunges forward, graced with a dramatic scene. As she exclaims, intoxicated by drink and anguish, she sweeps an arm over the table, smashing her glass of wine onto the ground in hundreds of tiny shards.

“Stop!” He puts his hands up, but it’s too late. She has stepped forward into a puddle of wine soaked glass, shards slicing into her bare foot with a hiss of pain. It feels irritatingly like some kind of metaphor. 

He’s across the floor in an instant, easing her back into her seat. Kneeling to examine her bloody foot, he grabs a nearby hand towel and sets to cleaning her up. Ashamed and embarrassed, she hides her eyes behind a hand propped on her forehead, the fight gone out of her as suddenly as it came on. He works quietly, removing the few embedded pieces of glass. He wraps her foot in the cloth, holding it firmly to staunch the bleeding.  
  
“Does that hurt?” he asks. She shakes her head, but it’s a lie. Her pride, her foot, her dizzy head - everything hurts.

When the bleeding is done, Cullen tosses the filthy cloth over the shattered glass. From below her hand, she watches the wine seep into the blood stained cloth, colors mingling until the white cloth is saturated red. 

The hand she is not hiding behind is lifted, gently enveloped in his. She lowers her shield and finds him looking up at her like a mirror - all heartache and confusion and tenderness. 

“I don’t know what you want from me, Josie,” he mumbles, resting his head on her knee. The back of his neck is bared to her, the taper of golden hair coming to a silky point on the nape. She runs her fingers through it, gently scraping her nails against his skin. For a few minutes they recover, the low crackling of the hearth and their breathing a balm against the screaming match and shattered glass.

She is afraid to break this moment. But in the quiet, in his tender ministrations, she has found truth. It’s suddenly easy to give in. She is so very tired.

“You could have convinced me,” she whispers. “That night in Haven...you could have convinced me to stay.” 

With hands still intertwined, he stands, and already she is reluctant to lose his weight, his warmth. He towers over her, and for a moment she worries they are about to plunge into chaos again. Instead, he holds her cheek like she’s a frightened animal, scared she might turn away. He leans down and kisses her, soft and sweet and sorrowful. 

Regret stings as they part. They could have had this all along. 

He’s not smiling, not really, but there’s a kindness behind his eyes that had disappeared as they fought. “I-I wanted to. But I thought you were right then.” 

“I wasn’t,” she says, a tired smile reaching the corners of her lips. Her hand covers his where it caresses her face, fingers tracing the lines of his knuckles. 

“Can you walk?” 

She stands, gingerly putting weight on her foot. “Yes.”  
  
“I’ll walk you to your room,” he says, leading her around the broken glass.

“What about this?” she asks, motioning to the mess on the floor. 

He shrugs as they climb the stairs. “I’ll come back and clean it up.”

“Thank you.” A smirk pricks at her mouth. “But how will you find it without me?” 

He chuckles, linking her arm in his at the top of the stairwell. They walk in silence to her room, much easier to find now that they have traversed nearly the entire floor plan of the chateau. She opens the door and turns to face him, uncertain of where they stand after such an eventful night. 

“Cullen, I-” 

A wistful smile rises on his face and he presses a kiss to her temple, late night stubble catching against her hair. 

“It’s late. We’ll talk in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♥ ♥ ♥ 
> 
> This one took a while! I wrote and rewrote it and then did it again, and finally found what they needed. I would be remiss if I did not thank my dear friend S for her monumental help on this chapter. She helped find the core of the chapter, emotional weight to the fight, and has been an incredible sounding board through writing this whole damn thing.


End file.
